Sunday on La Grande Jatte by Corynn Bernhardt
How tiny dots make up such a picture.
Individually, they are nothing.
And while she is sitting there looking at
The water, how it rises and falls like
The sail boat’s sails that go in the
Wind, flashing their white, and green, blue, and red.
The ripples of continuum getting
Stuck and stopped by the algae underneath,
Starting again with a rock from a hand,
Only to be pushed back under and drowned
By the beating of the row boat ore’s song.
The dip, swish, drip, hush, continiuum.
The steady flutter of a fishes fin
Casts shadows like hope that lies on her heart.
Waiting for something like impossible
To happen. Surprise in her day… never.
She always seems to be waiting like a
Short breath. Breath like the grass blade between her
Toes, like the bark on a branch, fallen off.
Like the hats on their heads; sturdy, hiding.
Like roots in the ground, her thoughts in her head.
Digging in the dirt, only worms can find.
Bugs and rocks and sticks and slim and more worms.
Packed down with every passing footstep made,
A crunch and a tear, the grass and the dirt
Fills the toes of those unknowingly done.
Faceless, surrounded, sit and walk and lie
On blades of grass with roots like her thoughts.
With one unnoticed, but thousands make plains.
With her heart rising in her chest like the
Heat in the summer, threatening to show through
Her modest, buttoned-up blouse to her neck.
And him, too busy watching the sail boats.
Sunday on La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat
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