The Green Blouse, 1919
In this interior, a girl with a blouse the colour of summer
sits in front of a window. Behind her, a curtain
falls, a shower of light, and behind that, the tropical
foliage of Le Cannet. Outside my window in Virginia,
it’s a day still trying to make up its mind—dregs of snow
in the corners, daffodils ringing bravely in the cold wind.
Spring is late this year, the grass undecided if it should
take a pass, stay sleeping, rolled up in its patchy old coat.
But there are two blue jays at the feeding table, and they
aren’t fooled by the bare trees, the blossoms reluctant
to unfold. They know the sun by its angle, see that the stars
have gathered in their spring flocks. They are bluer than the sky,
and they know it. Every day, there’s another cup of sunlight.
They tilt back their heads, and they drink it all in.
This poem first appeared in Barbara Crooker's book, Les Fauves.
A previous contributor to The Ekphrastic Review, Barbara Crooker's work has appeared in a variety of literary journals and anthologies, including Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania and The Bedford Introduction to Literature. She is the author of eight books of poetry; Les Fauves is the most recent. She has received a number of awards, including the WB Yeats Society of New York Award, the Thomas Merton Poetry of the Sacred Award, and three Pennsylvania Council on the Arts Creative Writing Fellowships. Her website iswww.barbaracrooker.com
9/29/2017 06:43:32 pm
Wonderful and I'm grateful for your poetry! I love the phrase: patchy old coat.
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