Monet dresses his Garden at Giverny
in oranges, reds, and purples.
Ripening paint, Brailing dewdrops,
reject the blues that tremble.
Monet fences blushed violets
in ascending apricot trunks
blocking the splash, distant waters gated,
never tainting his lavender poesies.
Monet leans, his lilac turns,
amethyst burns scarlet in waves westward;
he traces pursed jasmine
and wets petaled ruby lips with sighs.
Dipping a finger in his splattered fields,
Monet’s dripping hand shuddered for days
in surrender as the brushstroke played plum red tones
in petal-littered paths of May.