One sees Cezanne, Monet within these trees which fill
My bedroom window, branches dappled mossy green, and leaves
A thousand shades of same if they were planes, but not one is.
Each curves to produce highlights, shadows, and, behind them,
Fields of corn, and, farther off, opposing bluffs, and, looming
Above all of them, a sky one hundred types of gray. The man
Behind this window reels. He wishes he had eye and palette
With which to do justice to these countless shades of green
And grey, but he's resigned to paint with words, and leave
The images of what he sees to masters of another art,
Cezanne, Monet.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-06-23 at 02:52

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Interesting comparison between the two forms of art: the visual and the written. Can there be one form superior to another?