My Eye’s Delight
I saw her working,
her uncertain, improvised easel
holding a whitened canvas,
just waiting for those
seemingly random daubs
of bold impressionism,
free form interpretations
splashed with meaning,
today there was no mere
Renoir or Cezanne,
this delicate weave of
gossamer sheer,
an orb’s masterpiece
for my eye’s delight.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
