Sunlight on white paint
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need :
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves :
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
and every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here -- the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
Some fine insights here and lovely phrases...'as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty'
A lovely reflection. It's as if the white painted surfaces are a blank canvas upon which the persona's imagination paints a gallery full of landscapes.
Your beautiful poem shares in musical iambic pentameter a moment whole and perfect just as it is. Oh that every moment could be thus experienced. And yet, perhaps the bliss of too much might overwhelm mere mortals. Better indeed, a little flash of enlightenment as you have captured so gracefully here. Love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Those final four lines make the poem Michael. a delightful read and I loved the imagery, it takes one on a journey. Lovely write.
your words make me long for a "moment without taint" and wish that my life was a canvas awash with white paint. Keep sharing and thank you.