On The Home of the Heron by George Innes--Bethany P.
Is this a painting
Or did the marsh seep its own portrait
Slowly into the canvas
Its fingers spreading out
In fine lines and murky smudges
And dark muds deepening to stains?
And who supplied the heron,
Some small creature
Stepping its foot onto the gleam of light?
(that is how we know there is water
That it reflects the light
And that is how we know there is grass
That it obscures the gleam)
But are there really trees?
Questions for the heart
Was the picture left
Like a portrait of the savior
In blood upon a cloth?
Did it appear to the artist
As he went deeper into the woods
Following a mysterious bird
unsure
longing for hope and peace?
Was the heron closer once
On the piece of canvas?
Could the artist see his face;
And did he maybe follow him
Into his hazy orange land
His land of sunset
And transparent, rootless trees.
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