— After Odilon Redon, 1901
When Redon abandoned charcoal noir
he painted my secret.
Oil on canvas, the yellow buttery paste
and I am lost on a trail hiking alone,
leaves and flower petals backlit by the sun,
outlines blurred in air viscous with pollen,
floating seeds, scent of sage, damp earth.
chorus of wind rippled leaves,
birdsong and bees hum.
The liquid in trees and the liquid in me
flowing in some kind of rhythm,
a delicious thick soup,
yellow pigment suspended in drying oil,
a fusion of textural sunlight.
When I move the forest ripples,
stillness draws creatures to me
I look down and see a garter snake
slither silently in and around my boots,
I am just another rock or tree trunk
painted on a yellow background.
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