RAVINIA REZKO, 1889-1974

you’re getting old, the paint said
to the painter,
you’re withering, the land has taken
your hands,
turned them into rusty shovels
what has it brought
you, these masterpieces shown throughout
the world
your brow is fixed in a furrow,
your eyes
pleading with the sales clerk

mention your name to other people and
they will nod,
applaud with eloquent conversations
to whomever,
but I see your struggle, have seen
the way
your walk towards me has become
slower and slower
with each year’s dawn, have seen the bite
my teeth
have made in your palette, all the while

you trust, I’ve
seen your treasure, laid up in your jar, beside
the bed
and reaching for it this morning
I noticed the effort
it took just to lift the clay lid
you’re old,
painter, as dry as I, we
have nothing
more to put aside, or lift above our heads
it is time
the wind is high, let it blow our dust away

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