Feeling your hands twist and TWINE
interlacing with my fingers
So cold, STOKE the fire, dear
Get out some bread
(a little STALE, it’s true)
A few cheeses, a salad
We STATE our small needs
We talk about the day
We get settled at the table
Real life, not a set on a STAGE
We sit, our gazes naturally fall
On one another, oh beloved
I could STARE at you for hours

Georg’ann

  At the Norton Simon

Sculpted and painted women,
multitudes of moods, moments.
Among the reclining, working,
gathering, dancing, seducing,
serenely being, there is this one
calling out from her gilded FRAME.
Pale face with wild eyes.
Auburn hair moving outward
into darkness, bright corona.

SHARE a moist blueberry muffin
in the sculpture garden cafe.
Whole afternoon to SPARE,
we SNARE a secluded table.
STARE at passersby. Impromptu
fashion show, non still life
works of art. Guava trench coat
paired with clear plastic heels.
Family all in navy pieces. Curated?
Child around five in tweed jacket,
jaunty red beret askew on a bob,
merrily weaves through the crowd.

Heather