Poem by Dan Stone
You can tell a lot
by just looking around.
By what’s on the walls
or in a vase on a table.
It’s not like a foyer
or hall. The approach
may not prepare you at all
for what’s round the bend.
There’s furniture here.
Watch your step.
Genius that’s framed
and rugs under your feet
and a plant someone
must water and tend.
Read the room.
There’s a scheme
to the colors one sees
and if you look close,
maybe squint just a little,
you may even catch
a glimpse of the moon
heavy and huge
as a heart
outside the window
and angels with trumpets
golden and sweet
that seem to hover
just in the corner
of a keen eye,
in that white buzzing air.
It all serves to lend
a feeling, a state
you might think
just a dream,
a sketch that took flight.
It may seem
mere art within art,
a still life
but for the scent
of roses fresh cut
and a cat in a chair
who just blinked.
You can tell a lot
by just looking around.
By what’s on the walls
or in a vase on a table.
It’s not like a foyer
or hall. The approach
may not prepare you at all
for what’s round the bend.
There’s furniture here.
Watch your step.
Genius that’s framed
and rugs under your feet
and a plant someone
must water and tend.
Read the room.
There’s a scheme
to the colors one sees
and if you look close,
maybe squint just a little,
you may even catch
a glimpse of the moon
heavy and huge
as a heart
outside the window
and angels with trumpets
golden and sweet
that seem to hover
just in the corner
of a keen eye,
in that white buzzing air.
It all serves to lend
a feeling, a state
you might think
just a dream,
a sketch that took flight.
It may seem
mere art within art,
a still life
but for the scent
of roses fresh cut
and a cat in a chair
who just blinked.