An Artist at Heart

A poem was written down

four years ago, the notebook

subsequently lost.

But like an oft-viewed video

the images still appear

clear as the day was hot. An old

woman with Alzheimers

sits under the oaks, three

of five offspring accompany

her. They’ve been chatting,

telling stories about their

kids, or their students, or

sharing funny memes.

The woman holds up a green aluminum

pop can, the Winco brand

of Sprite. She takes a sip,

looks upwards, and says, “This tastes

about like what that looks like.”

We look up – lemon-lime-can-colored August

oak leaves fifty feet overhead against

a brazen blue sky. Six-ish divots

per leaf, hundreds of leaves per

branch. They rustle in the soft wind,

and sunlight irregularly passes

through the verdant dance, bright

sensation, there and gone again.

What a perfect poem she has uttered

This woman (who’d, in the 60s, met

Dalí at a party in France, or was it Germany?)

“This is who she really is,” I think.

I love meeting her at last.