Their French eyes plucked everything into parts
and put down pieces on a white canvas ground.
So the old apple tree bloomed distinct
in an overgrown orchard, dabs of white preceding fruit,
and each twig lined up bright buds
with space for leaves left all around.
That space was critical, more than effect:
it is how we live, it is our future.
They did it for light and a sense of movement
for the quick blur of our minds
as we overlay past and present
as we alternate hope and sorrow
where the bird perches versus its next flight
as space closes around each object
and time's flux changes each space
until spring completes itself into summer.
Then the world will be hot and solid.
They will lay their brushes down,
let color rule, shape swell, line age.
With mucilage and plug they will try
to fill the emptiness of lovers.
Their landscapes shimmer butterflies,
birches, dandelions, raindrops,
freckles, fingerprints, wide eyes staring.
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