There’s something missing: little Helen Sears,
In white dress and white shoes, standing between
The room’s red darkness and the green-gold light
Exploding through a window on the blue
Hydrangeas in their brass urns, glowing up
Over her face like revelation, seems
Unaware of the flowers her fingers touch.
Empty some call her, thinking Sargent viewed
Her as a kind of pretty object. But
Look close: her right leg’s crossed over the left
Completely, as if in ecstatic dance.
Her fingers, arched, are playing the petals like
Piano keys. Her stern eyes stare outside,
At what she’s missing so the man can paint.
V. J. Saraf
V. J. Saraf lives in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife and daughter. When not writing poetry, he runs a software business in the medical/healthcare space, and enjoys sailing in Boston Harbor and the many wonderful museums of New England.
The Ekphrastic Review
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