THE IRIS

          after Joan Mitchell

Maybe all the commotion,

all the contrasting color, 

 

the layering,

and the brushwork

swirling 

within this cosmos 

and gathered 

near the center,

like in so many 

of her other creations...

maybe all this is really 

an invitation, a come hither call.

When I finally heard it 

and felt it 

like a centripetal supplication,

I stepped closer.

And closer still. 

And when I could go no further

without crossing a boundary–

the curatorial line on the gallery floor–

I took out my phone of all things,

as if this overture, 

this transgressional gesture, 

might enable me  

to reach her, make

the deeper contact

I desired. 

But it was the camera 

I was after,

the aperture inside. 

It would allow me

to magnify her touch, her true genius. 

And so when I finally zoomed into

the splatter and push 

of so much color

and creativity

all the chaos fell away 

and there was only beauty.

It was then that I opened 

and found the framing 

and composition

within the composition 

I could love without restraint.

It was then I felt her most fully

and became a witness, I believe,

to the moment, it seemed, 

when grace itself, 

in the abstract, was invented.

The moment when,  

with a splash of lavender 

and a calligraphic sweep,

the idea of flower was formed.

The moment when blossom

attached itself to stem for the first time.

And it was this flower, this iris, the artist

offered me–as if to promise 

that I would one day make

my own masterpiece

with the touch, beauty, and love

of another.