Painting the Muse, Sheri Ramsey

Painting the Muse
 

Is it the shadows behind that make your eyes
glow this way, an inner chiaroscuro
weave of golden beam and ebon shadow
shining through, rife with love, cerulean—
or is that lazuline?—rich blue, open
invitation, inclusive magnetic
center of my gravity—just as is
that silver-grey silence behind your voice,

between your words . . . rare, violet and silken
nebulous of geometry—curves sans
cubes, corners, hard angles. This against skies
somehow familiar in their alien
vistas. As though emitted by your gaze;
All which hint untold stories, poems unpenned.

David Pitchford