Mine’s more like an O’Keeffe/Twombly;

born of bougainvillea brush strokes; unraveling

petals bearing, groaning out the sixty-eight

genius children of Javier O. Huerta. He knew

the meticulous folds don’t come

Easily; the internal orchestration almost

impossible to disseminate. But, I declare –

it can be done. If you go back to the petals,

really think about the color, blue-white

delphinium, a wink of pink; saturation

begins inside naturally, just beyond the stamen

line – in the background there is the sea,

angry at the unfinished poetry, starts another

grocery list; she can’t remember

all her old lovers – unaware Cy

is watching, unwise to the trick

of the tide, molding her size,

dictating her movement, spills

her secrets on the sand. Georgia

is diving in again, deep deep

commitment, to an Iris, her lips

of lavender-mauve, ripe for artistic

improvement, gives herself over,

and over and over, a wave folding,

a flower unfolding, myself – miraculous

folds of female modern art:

hybrid growth of complexity.

 

 

 

 

Follow Elisabeth on Twitter: @ehoranpoet

Visit Emma Sywyj at her website: www.emmasywyj.com