Midday

(considering Arkady Plastov's 

painting, "Midday," 1961, Russian

Museum, St. Petersburg)

This view will never tell me

what's between the woman and man--

love? Siblings? Friends? It makes me

feel heat lean into their backs

as they lean over that dark wood trough.

Only summer light infuses weeds and

grass this way, gives  them  a furnace

glow. A swooning heat of dreams.

She'd love to bathe, pats her head with

water with her right hand, cups some

in her left. He wants to drink. In

weeds the motorcycle's lean and red,

a bulbous lamp. I say this is a work-

break and think of midday respite

from work in the Sierra. If I stood

with them, I'd used both hands

to cool my face, my neck. I see 

bugs in that grass, youth in those

backs. After the snarl of that bike

fades, I'll slip into the painting,

watch trough-surface tremble,

settle, feel the waterlogged wood,

hear the hiss of grass, feel

sorrow, look for shade. 

hans ostrom 2021