A Friday Afternoon on the Island of the Botanics

Entering a repose of quietude such as there never was,

this day of days lay elongated,  still shadows

lengthening in the extended afternoon.

 

I chanced upon Seurat on the island of the Botanics

where a placid ruffle caressed a shore of shapes

composed of definition and light,

a clarity made so by lack of purpose,

no movement in the turn of page

or gesture, no motion in a stare

or step, no breeze, no sound.

 

Such bucolic as marks the ending

of a day in light’s simple balm.

I could only stand and stare, there under botanics’ ancient city-palm.

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

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