A Little Like Georgia O’Keefe

With her fondness for flow
she allowed
no interruptions
of gleaming hardwood floors
with little carpets
full of busy colors,
nor exquisitely papered walls
with stiff portraits or heavy mirrors.

She adored flowing gowns,
especially lavender, and
rivers after long, hard rains,
had difficulty understanding
salmon, their troublesome trip
against what she loved.

She sought it out in voices,
singing or speaking, language
streaming from human mouths,
equally awed by the soliloquies
of Shakespeare
or Simon and Garfunkel’s
effortless confluence
amidst the greening thickets
of Central Park.

But she ended up
moving away from the city,
where few things flowed,
where everything
was interrupted and
in her dreams she
often stuttered.

She chose, instead,
the cloudless, leafless desert
with its own radiant flow,
sunlight streaming
into every pore of
her smoothly wrapped skin.