amaranthine

I gaze at a giant canvas

contemplating.

Chatter and movement dissolve

until I stand alone in the face of majesty

splashed and etched
with plump treacle serves

of coloured oil.

The vibrant garden

where wind whispers faint

and light spills then floods

intense.

I sigh content from depths of soul.

Can a person

pulse with Monet's power?
To still induce

a breathtaking gasp,

sucking air from a room

in a vacuumed

whoosh?

Induce an undiminished thrill,

a drug seeping,

filling veins,

addiction crave?  

Yes.

(David)