She's a wild woman. Leaves in
her hair. Like she just got up from some
crazy roll in the hay. No one sorts
her closets or her kitchen drawers
and you can't find a damn thing
at her house: silver buckles hanging
from kitchen cupboards, satin shoes in
the potted plants, summer zucchinis
spoiling from the chandeliers. She's
been out in the studio throwing paint
at the trees in a frenzy of inspiration.
Look at that scarlet one all flecked
with verdigris, those ochre heads
throwing themselves around in the wind
in front of that lapis lazuli sky. She's
got deadlines and the pressure is beginning
to get to her. So many leaves, so little time.
That creep Winter is on the road
with his fancy suit and critic's eye,
getting ready to pan her work
with his icy wit and slick finality,
always has to have the last word. 


This poem first appeared in Eggpoetry.com (2015).
Used here with the author's permission.