Varnishing Days

These days between late springand early summer are like paintingsalready hanging but not yet finishedthe week before the Summer Exhibition(once the custom at the Royal Academy),still waiting for their final touchesand smelling of linseed and turpentine:

everything fresh, the paint still wet,the taut sky primed with a wash of blue.The Siberian irises, not yetunfurling, their buds still tight,look like paintbrushes saturatedwith ultramarine; buttercupsspatter the meadow with yellow.

From an arbor of scribbled vines,blossom-clusters of wisteriadangle, glistening with last night's rain.A wood thrush calls in liquid trillsfrom deep within the background'smass of pale, soft greens. The airchills while the sun warms the scene.

May these days remain unfinisheda while longer, with no artistjostling his way into apply some final flourishor a coat of varnish that willonly darken. Let the bumblebeefumble among the blossoms.