the art of becoming invisible

If I could I would paint a portrait
of a person who lies dying in bed.

There would be an open window
somewhere in the background,
two floors up and rather small
but vivid as a postage stamp,
and chartreuse curtains curtsy
as a silky breeze flutters in and
the eye decides where to look.

Outside the window can be seen
the counterpoint that is nature-
tree, bird, sky, the rolling hills
bright and green with life, and a
road leading somewhere far away.

If I could I would paint
a wry smile on your face,
your blue eyes open, your
skin pink as a peach and
hands in prayerful repose,
folded around a book of
your favorite poems.

Oh, if only I could I would paint
large roses just like de Longpre,
and they would be white and
beautiful and blooming with life
in a crystal vase, in a corner
on a table off to the right.

Finally, one who loves you,
sitting in a plumb cast chair
beside the big mahogany bed,
reading to you from the book
that you hold in your hands,
the art of becoming invisible.