Where is the sun? High above
the parasol.
See? The woman’s shadow is
cast
Straight down the hill next
to where you
Stand looking up at her face
Blowing in the clouds.
Three dabs of paint were all
that Monet
Needed to fix an expression
another husband
May have thought was just
the passing shadow
Of a cloud as he bid her
farewell
On that grassy hill.
Yet her face seems to reveal
that concern
That all wives have, sons at
their sides,
At each prolonged parting
from their husbands
Known to be more passionate
about their work
Than their families.
If he was not aware of her
concern, how could Monet
Have been so able to shape
that look from his wife
So precisely in the strokes
of his passion even
As he absorbed his time in
those shades
Of black and gray?
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