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The white end of a proud and valiant scallion
Tips its long, arched and stealthy greener end
Over a cold and stony kitchen shelf. It is
A bridge to cross the picture plane,
Or a conductor's baton planted and poised
For orchestration and subtle harmonies...
A tilted handle shines its blazoned orange brass;
Its sturdy, rounded fecund pot lilts its lid
Above a tiny nest of fragile, speckled pheasant eggs
Tucked behind cradled curves and misted shadows,
Two chestnuts, a goblet, a pear, an eathenware jar,
A landscape of crowded yet spacious forms
Pierced by the pedantic mortar's pestle
Standing like a pupil or a soldier, waiting
For your gaze along the flimsy feathered scallion,
Deep into dark chiaroscuro, where it is an agent
Of the painter's arm, wielding a world that feeds
You so much more; it is a kindling, a recognition,
As if it was not just him with the artist's hand,
Patting the palette or the potter's wheel,
Arranging objects and artifacts made before:
We are made to feel like her, stopping at the door
In "Return from Market," glancing at a table,
Poised as maid, mother, servant and master.
She, too, is God and artist,
Tilling the soil and sowing seeds
On a vast canvas of dreams and domesticity.
It's as if she could part the firmaments
Simply because she's stopped and begun to see.
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