I’m with Monet,
and his cataract.
How he grew to not see
the defined edge—
painting in waves,
and rivers of blue and pink
waterlilies,
in splashes of red poppies.
And I’m with Monet,
and his wife Camille
upon the hill,
with her parasol and veil,
the light behind.
I am with the shades of blooms,
how the iris looked
this way blue,
this way purple
depending upon the sun’s course.
And I am with Monet’s garden paths,
his borders of sunflowers,
poplars against a blue sky.
And I am with the way
I tilt my own face,
eyes squinted against the sun,
that everything melds,
just like Monet and his impressions
of something—
the features that withdraw
for the whole to come forth.
And I am with Monet
in the way his colours blend
into blossom and borders,
and cottonwool clouds,
into daylight and sunset,
and fields into the distance.
In the way he captured light
dancing across water,
reflecting the foliage,
rippling like wind.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
February 2023
Living Tree Poetry 
Shivering with recognition and the call you express so perfectly… I live in three acres of forest, and am feeling that call as I settle into retirement…
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Oh thanks dear Brenda, I am not here as often as I should be. Sorry for the late reply. I can just picture you in retirement with three acres of forest. A Mary Oliver kind of paradise xx
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Thanks for your beautiful response, Ana Lisa…and it is exactly as you describe it: she is one of my favorite poets along with you. And my poems keep coming too…now on my sixth book…all on amazon.ca Keep writing! Brenda
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Oh wow Brenda, it reminds me it is Hildegard Von Bingen’s feast day today. We need the Saints who gone before to remind us of what we have to offer still, right into a ripe fullness of maturity. Blessings upon your writings too dear friend x
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