Angelica

 

 

He hears the breeze

bantering with the ocean

and remembers his best model -

 

how her hands squeezed rain

from a gray sponge

to rinse off the day's heat.

 

She was Spring

wringing water from a cloud

to cool temperatures

and keep them from ruining

the season's grace.

 

Slouched in wicker,  he watches the cypress

widen in shadow

and thinks of her hair

falling solvent in the morning light,

 

an emulsion of sienna

he could apply to canvass

but never  possess.

 

She kept her maidenhood intact

and claimed she was destined

to become a suffragette or  nun.

 

Slowly, he consumes a few grapes

(as she often did between sittings)

and smiles -- remembering how

the brass mirror with its broad eye

perceived her in reverse.