(La rose robe [1864] painted by Jean Frédéric Bazille)
the rose robe glowed,
holding its own light,
as last sunlight shone
on white buildings
down there in the town.
she sat on a broad
stone ledge, taking
a break from house
and people too self-
involved to care about
a mild breeze
that each evening
met her and teased trees.
she rested her long, strong
brown arms, letting hands
lie on a night-black apron.
What she thought
was no one's concern
but hers. cool air
found her neck
and shoulders. her tired
feet in gray house
shoes napped on stone
like two cats.
she'd sewn the pink
robe's sleeves herself
before summer settled,
knowing how they'd
sit above her elbows
on evenings just like
this one. like her,
women down in town
longed to linger outside
stuffy rooms,
to think, and to listen to
sparrows sing
themselves to sleep
as stray charcoal clouds
drifted across
a chalk-blue sky.
hans ostrom 2022
