The Meantime

by Les

When night’s retreating hair
slipped through the love-damp fingers
of dawn, you knew you wanted
to be a recorder of nuance, as when Monet,
looking out his window, committed the moment
to orange. You wanted proof
of how one tint bleeds into another
but the brushstrokes are jarring

the way someone leaves in the middle of a lecture,
reverie ends with the sound of clapping
and pigeons are startled into flight. You see,
abruptness is the illusion. If you look hard enough,
you can imagine the bridge where then
becomes now. For example when you notice
the season has turned, or the coffee has cooled.
Revenge of the forgotten, you think, or whatever
is missed when you are absorbed in one thing.

When Monet painted the sunrise,
he wasn’t thinking of sunset, slices of time when light
is identical. He wanted water and shipyard emerging
from the mist, expecting the inevitable. Meanwhile
ambiguity stole in, the way a word is not what it is
and you wonder at the meaning of applause.
Agreement or relief. Love or fear. Beginning or end.

All there is is an impression of in-between.

After Impression, Sunrise
© Noelle Leslie dela Cruz