Tromp L’oell – for Monet


Now that the storm had passed,

the rainless wind buffets and bluffs

in half-hearted gusts

rattling the branches and leaves of the trees

free of lingering droplets

left behind in the rush.

While a beautiful calm blushes

between gushes,

glimpses of a world in glimmering reflection

in a shimmering mirror of newborn puddle and pool,

already awake, already stirring with life,

and glistening on the surface of everything,

lovely and wet as a first kiss,

a moment of purity and peace that was hidden

but visible now,

left behind in the wake of the violent tempest.

There now is the hillside, green and brown,

reborn again,

rippling below itself

on the tenuous tension of water’s surface.

A glimmer of sunlight breaks through,

expanding everything,

just for a moment,

and then quickly disappears in retraction

as yet another gush of heavy air

trembles the leaves once more.

Now it reappears,

in a wider gap, remaining longer this time,

glinting yellow in the fertile wetness of all

those ripples and dripples

yet running down,

seeking stillness on the edge,

just for a moment,

only a moment,

one moment,

teetering on the brink,

so temporal, so fragile, so incredibly complex,

so different from the last.

as the first dragonfly skims across

and hovers,

taking it all in.



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