We’ve escaped Chicago’s winter
glad to take in Tucson Sun
as he paints the mountains
in unending displays of shapes–
And my computer, ever helpful,
just prompted me to add and colors
But, Sweetheart, that’s not
what I wish to say. It’s about shape–
depending at what jaunty angles Sun
wields his gold-tipped brush,
on how this minute’s cool or wet air
causes trembling in his grip,
on what clouds his strokes encounter
and more insistently suggest
the outline, which may not be anything
Sun intended upon arising,
but who is he not to muse on clouds,
or spurn a Cubist canvas?
