She chops the cabbage, leeks, and carrots,
forming circles of red, of white, and green.
An exercise in colors he will notice when he comes.
She cuts and files his nails
hiding souvenirs of blue
from his work with tiles in Delf.
An exercise of love while holding her father’s hands.
She drains the yellows and browns from the bed pans
into the gray flowing waters of the canal.
A worker shouts hello from a passing barge.
An exercise of surprise that he would notice her.
She boils and hangs the sheets, and napkins, and underwear
billowing white in the breeze of the sunlight.
An exercise of labor earning stuivers for her family.
She walks the cobbled stones to the butcher’s stall in the market square.
The butcher’s son quickly chances glances hearing her voice
selecting fish or choice red meats,
eager to fill her orders with extra smiles.
An exercise or chore or maybe more
She strolls with him on Sunday afternoons
down the lane along the tulip fields,
hand in hand, in conversations, planning, promising,
sharing warm places and picnicking in the green.
An exercise exploring a blooming love affair.
She sits plainly seen in the sun’s morning pallette,
a lemon-blue turban hugging her head
a wisp of hair, just a curl, above her ear and the Pearl .
An exercise posing just for him.
She sits turning her head until her eyes
are watching him, Johannes Vermeer
exercising his artistry, secretly painting her,
April 08, 2006
