There is art on these walls, as if
windows could be improved on—
Dufy's riotous, variegated fields,
flashes of dancers by Degas,
posters bruiting shows of shows.
Yet as we wait for water to boil
for pasta, as chicken simmers
in Pinot grigio, lemon, basil,
I want the tongue of summer sun
on green afternoon leaves.
Now I know what ivy has tried
all my life to mean, and gold.
What, on a day so pure, can compete
with green? Yet we insist on not
leaving well enough alone. Years
I've stained the brightness of paper
with dark words, when I have
love, ivy's newest hues,
rooms and rooms of nothing but
everything there is, light, true light.
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