Inspired by Claude Monet’s painting, Lunch Under the Canopy

Light streams like ribbon on apple slices,
a pat of butter glistens on a baguette,
an outstretched hand offers both on a folded napkin.
We lean in closer,
share the intimacy of space and words
in between bites.
We gather up our lives,
offerings in spoonfuls,
cups brimming with details
of the everyday.
It is the sharing that sustains us—
the phone call from your son,
the postcard from my friend in Prague,
the walk we took by the water 
this morning with the dog.

Our host unfolds a cloth
from an abundant basket,
revealing still warm banana bread.
He carefully places thick slices
on a blue Chelsea patterned plate,
ensuring that every person
has a portion 
before taking one for himself.
The canopy of shade frames
our gathering like a painting.
Our colors blend into one another,
a palette of afternoon sun
and sustenance.
                        

An empty field transformed,
became an oil painting
framed by golden light
and the halo of dawn.
The walk I had taken every day
bloomed into something new.
Giant, concentric circles of calm appeared
just past the wooden fence
where sheep used to graze
and horses once stood by trees.
The hay bales called to me
as if singing the day into existence,
a chorus of wheat angels beckoning the morning,
teasing us all into an awakening 
of limbs now moving with grace,
minds now open to every new flicker of thought 
sprouting through soil.
These are ancient beings,
unmoved, unruffled,
mountains showing us the way,
with the patient steadfastness 
of mother love.
                        

In a yellow sea of goldenrod,
turkeys hide in the wind created waves.
The air smells like sun.
A brown-speckled fan
occasionally appears,
like a fine feathered, lace accessory
at a Victorian dance.
Eyes blind to all other color,
the sky is a flood of blue ink.
The road goes on forever.