And I, too, am in love with it, the patchwork of sunlight that falls
in intersecting lines and solid blocks through the great plane trees of Aix, 
where we sit in the square, sipping dark coffee, listening to the music of water 
in the fountains.  Cézanne said, the principal thing in painting is to find the distance, 
but sometimes there is too much space between us, vast blue stretches
of the Gulf of Marseilles.  In his paintings, even the sky is broken 
in planes, blue rocks, chunks from the firmament’s quarry.  
Warm ochre. Deep green. Cold blue.  Rosy apples in a white bowl. The weight, 
the heft of them, repetition and refrain.  He painted the same mountain over 
and over, dragging canvas and easel up Les Lauves day after day, 
where Sainte-Victoire still rises in the distance, elusive, unreachable.

________________________________________________________________________

I
In Vermeer’s paintings, light is always falling
just like here, in sweet Virginia, where spring’s
already come, lilacs and phlox, soft air
on bare arms, descending.  Peepers are calling
from the trees; there are dogwoods, white
and pink, everywhere, as if a cloud
of butterflies has come to ground.  Haloed
in hazy green, the woods are coming back to life.
At twilight, the scent of lilacs drifts
through the open screen, the sky turns lavender,
and this first day’s work is put away.
Nothing but false starts today,
first lines begun that simply go nowhere;
filling yellow paper with my erratic script.

II
Filling yellow paper, my erratic script
wanders over the blue ridges and green fields
where cows munch green grass that yields
rich milk, like Vermeer’s maid, whose hips,
wrapped in a thick blue apron, are rolling hills
themselves.  The earthen jug, the crusty bread, the buttery
light glazes her face and arms, spills
onto the table and floor.  The thing about memory’s 
that it’s a thief, stealing what it should
preserve, the past, stop all the clocks.
I’m trying to remember what it felt like to be five,
first days of school, the smell of library paste, arriving
late, the stomach butterflied, new crayons in their box.
I’m trying to be good.

III
I’m trying to be good, write 500 words a day
even though outside the sun is streaming
like a thousand dandelions gleaming,
and the sky’s the blue of washed chambray.
The purple prose of redbud trees is
scribbled and scrawled outside the lines.
Hidden in the grass, violets, buttercups shine,
but gosh, how hard this writing business
is—it’s easy enough to just repeat, a slick 
lyric, a villanelle or two— 
What challenge is there that I’ve not tried,
that also calls to something from inside,
blends head and heart as Vermeer drew
the light?  A crown of sonnets just might do the trick.

IV
A crown of sonnets sure would do the trick,
could capture this experience—away
from home, nine days to see if I could pay
attention to myself for just a bit.
And so, today, I took a break and drove
to town, a thrift shop, bought a raw silk
blouse of Chinese blue, a tee shirt swirled in gilt
and glitter, earrings of gears and sequins that I love.
Came back, wrote for hours, went for a massage,
felt all the knots along my shoulder blades untie,
walked down the winding road, the mustard      
blooming, thick as butter
spread on bread.  All I          
know is:  a day like this is nothing but a blessing.

V
What a blessing it is, to be in this space,
no cleaning off the desk when the school bus comes.
The only sounds, the birds and bees that hum
and dither—which flower should we light on next?
In the woods, light falls, reflects off dogwoods,
rafts of phosphorescence, 
illuminations, decrescendos
of lace.  Each morning, I do yoga, get the blood 
moving, then back inside to dig in memory’s mine.
Each sonnet’s getting harder now to write,
but the challenge has been thrown down like a glove
or crumpled petals littering the ground.  I’d like to prove
that I can meet this task, and take delight
as one word, then another, falls in line.

VI
One word, and then another, falls in line
like geese wedging their way down the sky,
a vast scroll of paper yet unwritten.  I
roll a sheet in the typewriter and begin
again, to try and pin down what’s elusive,
some insistent bird that whistles from a bush,
 “Here, here, here I am,” then vanishes
while I am left to struggle with the narrative.
Like Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window,
I wish the light would flood in from the left,
paint me slickly gold, tell me what comes next.
But I am in the dark, no map, no text,
just following my heart as night falls soft,
covers us with her obsidian wing.

VII
Night covered us with her blueblack wing,
but now it is the morning, the last day— 
here, the closest thing to paradise on earth.  May
I be truly grateful for this stay, though squeezing
these last lines is getting tougher.
Last night, we had a concert, Brahms
and Currier on grand piano, wine on the lawn,
Caesar salad, grilled tuna, and strawberries for supper.
The lilt of southern vowels, drawling— 
But this last sonnet’s waiting to be woven, 
threading the radiance of spring, memory’s snapshots,
pictures at an exhibition, birdsong snippets,
into the poem’s loom, the descant of love.
In Vermeer’s paintings, light is always falling.