Jane Wilson
Artist Convalescing
Sylvie with her poor lopped ribs
And her staunch lung must turn back
From our stroll, at the first slope of the mountain;
But she returns serene, among deep breaths
Of sea-dark trees where black
Drops of damsons put on flesh again.
The wind is beyond measure generous,
Sweeping the last cumulous to the end
Of the washed blue. The sycamore swells,
Absorbing air into its quivering capillaries.
And blessing, as the placid leaves descend,
Sylvie’s own blissful cells;
Healing, she’s drawn to her easel.
In the clearing the pines are stacked for her autumn
Fires. Stirred by the tang of resin,
She makes for her mansion where the sun has cast
All afternoon at one wall,
Lighting it white as a canvas. She goes in.
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Page(s) 17
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