Today you are a bit wild.
If there were an ocean, you would swim
out beyond the breakers.
Instead, at your desk you kill the blood
sucking mosquito with the electronic racket
& stare at a 1970s painting.
Lines of color, circles drawn, half circles
purple ellipsis, more thick red lines
color—pink chaos, black lines—a horse’s thick mane.
The screen door open, August heat blasts
yesterdays’ back. This morning you dust
the high A frame window. Against the glass
its spread chartreuse wings, a moth
you try to swish away. It returns.
Your grandson floods through you.
Oh this.
This, the way he returns to your heart,
ethereal, not of this world anymore.
Unlike bold lines on the canvas
still after all the years remain unchanged—
vibrant splashes & whooshes.
The winged insect appears just now
Its translucent membranes spread out
to rest, a tireless presence
says, here, I am here
on the second day in August.