On the terrace- oil on canvas by Renoir
When you close the doors
and open the windows, there are
words sleeping under the cherries,
blossoming on the edge of those mountains
you need to climb to conquer yourself
before the sun sets again in Japan,
They are begging you to impress them because
you are metaphor, an impressionistic image
painted when Renoir’s hands trembled
looking at us.
I see you fusing with your surroundings,
full of true vibrant colors as you dissolve
my ignored dimensions in links
which can only be understood when
nobody can hear my heart beating.
I see you by my side on the terrace,
looking for beauty, the same beauty
you couldn’t find inside yet for you
are a unripe fruit in life’s hands,
a manga drawing in a pink bedroom.
As I anticipate your face, my eyes
disrespect me and put me to sleep.
I shall dream of a world in which
people don’t feel so different from
each other, I shall see your hands
writing with faith, passion and freedom.
What have you left me after
the midnight of my poems?
Only an interval between what I was
and what I will never be.
My solace has been what I wrote
but even what wrote doesn’t belong
to me anymore. If you look yourself
in the mirror, you will see that
you are wearing me like an old sweater:
the one you love more because it makes
you think of all those things which you
miss the most.
I can’t give you what you really need
but I do hope you find it within for life
steals things from us along the way.
I can only open my hands and drop more
one poem in your heart.
Read it carefully. Read it as if it was my last one
for Renoir is painting us on the terrace
and I believe you have a wind-blown look.
Karla Bardanza
Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012
Well stated Karla, well stated! tc
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