by Andrea Hollander Budy
The usual bowl of fruit, yes,
and at attention in a blue porcelain vase
wands of jonquils not yet bloomed,
gray-green buds
like translucent cocoons
their wet and yellow wings
stirring against the thinning threads
of gray, about to give way---
the way a woman whose wrist
has been lightly touched beneath
the starched tablecloth recognizes
a man's invitation, its promise,
as the chatter of dinner guests blurs
into nonsense and she begins to feel
the invisible tug on the knot
fixed at the body's center
waiting
to be undone...
The painter knows
what not to execute, knows we bring
our own heat to the canvas,
knowing exactly how
these jonquils would look
if open.
But not letting them.
[Via Poetry Daily]
[Illustration from Michenv's Photos in Flickr--gorgeous photos]
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