The spring bouquet is arranged in a clear glass
filled to within an inch of the top with water,
the white daisy petals with yellow hearts
are the ones that steal the show.
reasons unknown, the artist posed these nude models
on a plain but polished wooden table in front of a window,
sash down, with only a few saplings,
a green lawn, and a humble garden as the backstory
this silent poem in raised oil strokes.
The picture hangs on a wall opposite another window, tall,
the sun is free to nurture this born-again cliché.
What no one notices is that the painted flowers, all as one,
left to right as they follow the path of the sun,
swallowing each ray as their daily bread,
whether they follow the sun that the painter has implied
or the one that brushes the tall window with yellow strokes
unknown to all but the mystery of art that is reality squared.
Outshining Solomon, the lilies of the field follow the rhythm of prayer.
can only wonder at the cataracts of the mind, of eyes
that pass this still life every day, blind to its soul and secret hope.