Palette

Poem by Miriam N. Kotzin

When leaves have fallen, windless, from the trees,

bright circles lie like skirts spread on the lawn.

Then I try to fix the illusive red.

Light plays its tricks. Magenta shifts with ease:

again Venetian red in golden dawn,

slight purple madder when all gold has fled.

Fledgling, I’ve neither palette nor brush; slight

dawn poems, my only canvas, plink again—

uneasy rhyme. I wait for stronger light.

Red’s just red on grass that’s merely green—then

lawn flamingos? Leaves flutter and glow, bright

treason by wind and light I’ll catch, but when?

 

American Arts Quarterly, Summer 2013, Volume 30, Number 3