To the Artist
While he struggled
with saw, hammer, nails and plane
building a garden door for magic to enter,
painted one in.
An artist asked her husband to build a door to the garden, which she could leave open to allow an unrestricted view of the burgeoning growth while she painted. “To let the magic of the garden fill my eyes,” she said. Her husband had never done anything like this before, and while he fought his measuring tape, and wielded his carpenter’s square, she became impatient. She painted a whimsical door that stood open to a lush garden, framed in a filigree of ivy. Eventually, they built the real door next to it, and her filigree extended around the new construction. She painted the flowers in her trompe-l’oeil to match the view of the garden.
However, seasons change, and she sometimes muses that she should alter her painting as often as the garden changes; snowdrops and scilla in spring-time; poppy fire and royal purple irises as summer approaches; then red velvet bee balm followed by dazzling white phlox and the lavender echinacea with their spiky centers; the deep reddish-purple of the smoke bush in autumn and brilliant scarlet, bead-like berries of the Pyracantha, vibrant against snow in winter. I wonder how thick the paint would become over the years.
A poem for dVerse Open Link Night