From a Guest Room at the Retreat

I'm sitting in a spacious
chamber, illuminated only through
a bank of windows. So far, the day's
a dialog of sweat and perspiration.
I've got the sashes raised.
A lambent breeze evaporates my skin.

I stand, step to one
of the windows, and place my hands
on the generous sill. I gaze down
a dusty road with a vineyard sprawled
on the low side and a tangerine orchard
on the high. My eyes begin to drift,
drawn from the sharp, cleaved
boundaries of things, as if Cézanne
or Monet were editing the landscape.

Despite the late afternoon sunshine,
I notice an absence of deep shadow.
A fence post casts a brush stroke
of pastel. What ought to be the dark
side of a granite boulder gleams,
as if backlit from some hidden lamp.

Fred Longworth