Portrait Of A Memory Poem by Heath Harrington

Oh Maria, where do I start?
I can try to illustrate, love
At first conception, like the
Poets of old, who spun tales with
Hair of gold and angels on high.
trite sketches of beauty
Have no place here on my canvas.

With a camel hair brush and palette
I start at the feet where my Venus
becomes rooted into reality.
Your bantam toes in focus
they leap upon the easel
ready to walk. If memory serves
a skirt that day was what you wore,
revealing your bare legs.
Skin so smooth like
milk pouring into a glass
'What color for these? ' I ask
and settle for what I have,
Brown, white, and a touch of red.
Warm paint melts onto the paper.
The crispness of the air
affects your thin veneer, coaxing
veins to emerge from the depths.
I must keep painting for fear of losing you
to the ravages of memory.
Every part springs onto the page.
I can't apply the paint fast enough
To appease the urge to gild your form.
Blues and greens for your dress
And browns with white for your coat,
It's all coming together from your
waist to your delicate hands.

Then I stop, how can I frame
Your beautiful face? Puzzled and
discouraged I fret for hours.
Do I have the talent required?
Then it strikes me from stained glass,
A church Window, Santa Maria, it's your eyes
The look of peace and contentment.
How can I be there? The old masters agree,
the idea is more important than the reality.
I capture the same, in the portrait of a memory.

Brown like a hot chocolate
On a winter day, are your eyes.
Serenity lives there with love.
My last stroke to cover the white
Your eyes come alive. Tears flow
And I rest in knowing this maybe
As close as I'll ever come to you.