Silience

She stands tall against the wind. The artist recalls 

the last time he held her, when his careful hand

combed her hair like the air does now. 

 

She raises an emerald parasol as 

her eyes find her husband and the umber

that grips his fingers like a lover. 

 

Now, he lingers in her shadow. She wonders

which one completes him: herself  

or his second love.

 

The art is your wife, I swear it. 

He smiles, returns to the canvas. 

No, my wife is the art. 

 

Their child waits, the pointy grass stippling his toes, 

until he calls to his father, the names of yellow!

Together, they list every one. 

 

Perhaps this passion is what his wife loved first— 

but walking alone, she knows his fault is

that fierce refusal to let a moment pass.