by Rachel Williams

Created on: July 24, 2010

It was called "Rust and Blue,"
And it perched on the wall
Like a kind of moss or fungus
All cerulean and sienna,
It captures you, carries you
Into the womb of its existence,
A world composed of indigo and dust
Where rhythms of the sea tap on windows at dusk
Like the harbor of a town at night,
A serene darkness, a still rebirth
Where even the drunks have gone home
Forty-five inches by thirty-six
Short for a symphony, small for a world,
Tall for a door, the painting that it is
An immortal dream, a slice into another reality,
Accomplished by swathes of the paintbrush on canvas
All astounding, all cerulean and sienna,
Gripping you, grasping for you,
This is the painting I stand before
In a mere mortal museum.

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