In the womb of my watercolor mind, a portrait of you -
eyes Wedgwood-blue in a peach wing-back chair,
skin buttermilk fair, and hair Shirley Temple curly.
Corn silk soft, your porcelain powdered face
shows no trace of age.
I am mesmerized by your eyes
and the way your cashmere-clad bosom sways
like lulling ocean waves.
Your hands dance to classical music -
The orchestra is Daddy tuning the hi-fi higher
for his hard-of-hearing ears.
I glance at him, chance a wink, and roll my caramel eyes.
You stroke the air -
a butterfly tickled by a breeze.
And in your wheezy voice, you count aloud:
“One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three…”
to the movements of Haydn’s Clock,
sonatas by Bach and Debussy’s Claire de Lune.
You paint music on your air palette -
an invisible baton, your brush.
I sit with the sun at my back,
basking in your love.
Legs crossed on the warm wooden floor,
I’m painting you a still life.
The open door lets
sea-salted breezes through jalousie slats.
I only smell you
wafting sage and Yardley English Lavender.
When you laugh you are sparkling
spring water on my parched lips.
I drink in your music.
In the womb of my watercolor mind,
a still life is there
of an empty wing-back chair
arms embracing thin air,
a dimple in the cushion worn threadbare.
When symphonies fill the air,
your still life comes alive.
