Caretaker
Like the image of the old
bound in balms by the young,
the girl in a meadow, just
a painting I glimpse.
She cares for the weeds
the same as the tender floral dots.
Her voice is an uncommon
invitation to the young, and her
eyes float the roof of the world,
considering her next phrase,
or the next petal to drop.
One finger pointing, indicating
someone, something, just
beyond the limits of canvas,
an invitation to jump in, invent
the other face in the portrait.
Sloth's Sway
In the considerate movement
of the sloth, I see my own
sanguine approach to this day.
Problems without solutions
gather in my mind like a mob
at bedtime, and so I carry these
voices with me all day, more
worn by the night than I should be,
slowly turning my head, munching
a leaf, preparing to hop down from
my perch, but thinking better of it
in halting concentration.
High-Back Chairs
Indecorous, the table
belongs in another room.
The wallpaper crisis,
aesthetics peeling in piles.
The high-back chairs join
the wing-backs for a seasonal
migration up the stairs.
I recall pictures of hollowed
out buildings, shavings, rust,
an artist who captured
ruin photographically.
One day my most carefully
preserved art will be nothing
but curls, hardly an insect
preserved in amber.
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. He blogs about books and authors at readingandlitresources.blogspot.com
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