Two Sisters on a Terrace, by Renoir
foreground, the everlasting rose,
the purified flower, the hats entrenched,
one blood red, the other a flowering reef,
each as sanctified, endearing as
torrential ruby of the hair and florid sewing basket;
to loveliness, the tree-spoked air can testify,
attuned to balcony and precious gift of eyelids.
neat pinafores, masks of pale pink light
before a lake spilled clear by summer storm largesse,
where oily hand whips dabs of color
into fresh-cleaved obdurate innocence –
Dance, by Matisse
It is the morning of the earth.
We are all naked
on the green hill.
We clasp hands,
around in a loving circle
until we synchronize
with the movement of the earth,
slip into its rhythm.
The sky is an unyielding,
Our bodies are pink
as first light.
Like love, like beauty,
it is an eternal dance
we have set in motion.
The music we hear
is the music you see.