Though after five months of chemo, her hair 
was only thinned a little,
she had a free wig coming, 
the nurse told us.  We visited the room
of floor-to-ceiling shelves:  mannequin
heads, and baskets of scarves and wraps.
Mom settled in; we giggled, comparing 
thoughts as she smiled for my cellphone camera:
dark auburn with short curls, layered
brunette waves, medium shaggy, sideways parts;
one wig with streaks of silver like surprise hints of lightning.
In no rush to agree on the one and decide,
we wanted to stay in that brief clearing
of complimentary joy. We never even considered
choosing anything other than hope.

			after Paul Zimmer

I am sitting beside Shakespeare
in Gertrude Stein’s studio.
We are listening to John Keats 
recite an ode.  
The mullioned windows are flung open--
brightness unheard of gushes in--
one nightingale perches 
on a particular beam of sun.

Just now, Emily D. glides in,
arms linked with the other Emily.
Charlotte follows close behind,
the sequel to Jane Eyre in her hands. 

Renoir sets up his easel, a cigar 
hanging off his lips, while Emerson and Jung
smile from the settee. 
Johannes and Clare settle close 
on the silk-draped piano bench,
their fingers nearly touching.

Outside, Satchmo and Dizzy 
are warming up in the gazebo.
Mozart chats on the lawn with Frida Kahlo.
Just now, Monet arrives
offering a bouquet of water lilies splashed
with water and light--a gift from our Hostess
who is everywhere
though unseen.

Is the deepest end of the pool
darkest blue of the lake,
the tallest lilies suffocating
the air with inescapable perfume.

It is the massive weight of sunflowers
crowded with seed
and more seed,
bowing their heads to the earth.