his mother to hold still
long enough for him to paint her.
Wasn't she constantly getting up
to bring him a cup of tea?
to find the brush he needed?
Didn't she tell him at least
a dozen times that no one would
want to look at an old woman?
At last, he turned her sideways
and told her to look out the window
while he painted her profile.
The sky was deepest blue,
and the clouds went over the horizon
like salmon, leaping up a golden stair.
"Oh Jimmy," she whispered, but
did not move, only her glance
brightening beneath the darkened brows.
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