Two Children on the Seaside Rocks


To paint the blue sky with storm clouds 
threatening, or the foreground of rusty sea rocks
and pale water held between them, shimmering
with reflected sun—which did you choose first
as you set out the oils, stretched your canvas?

Or did you start by posing the two children 
on the large boulder halfway out from shore,
their white aprons, soft blue jackets, and straw
hats catching the sun—the boy wearing
a faded tie, the girl with hand to mouth,

while you, perched farther out on the rocks 
at low tide, easel precarious, strove to celebrate 
that day, that place, and your children—possibly
my great-grandmother or great-grandfather— 
solemnly staring at you through shaded eyes. 

The rocks striated brown shot through with moss,
the weathered boathouse and dock at low tide, 
the hazy garments blowing on the clothes line
strung between two trees behind the outhouse— 
did you know, how could you know that you

were catching time in a sieve, netting the light
for me? How could you know that you were
stroking hope across a canvas, framing it in
gilt that shines across a century, inviting me
to sit with you that day in gratitude.