The morning sun became the trembling hand
On the door to the boudoir, revealing
Bowed leaves in dazzling shades of emerald,
Bright bursts of deep lemon, orchid and white.
The shock of color rendered the sculptures
Of the dead absurd, for no eyes so charmed
By this thrilling pageant of life could think
The vibrant present was not eternal.
We walked on to the chapel, where artists
Once transformed simple tints into the folds
Of a monk’s robe, and without word or thought
Found ourselves buying pastels in a shop
And carving out a small sliver of floor
In our tiny room to play with color.