Musings

Impressionism
(Musée d'Orsay, Paris)

I saw him
silent
with tears in his eyes
reverent
insulated from the crowds
of museum goers
who, like him,
had come to the Orsay
to pay homage to the masters,
magicians of color and light,
who caught a moment in time
a glance
an emotion
a gesture,
and immortalized it.

I paused behind him
and beheld a most beautiful
young woman,
a Renoir,
fresh, perfect, rosy,
her lips, cheeks, dark eyes
waiting
alone.

I felt the longing:
his
hers
mine.
Who was she?
Was she real
or was she just
the impression
of the artist's desire
of his idealism
of his dreams?

I found myself immersed
in the silent devotion
of this young man.
I looked at his face
and saw something there
that resembled the girl.

Did she remind him
of a sister
a cousin
a love
now gone
but cached away,
suddenly rediscovered
in her face
in her lithesome beauty?
Or was she the one
always sought
in lonely reveries
finally meeting her
but she not flesh?

Renoir, long dead
left a bittersweet souvenir
in capturing a perfect beauty,
not knowing that immortalizing
her image
would create a painful void
in future generations
of young men
who long for the
beauty
softness
grace
and fresh scent
of a living goddess.

© 2000 Richard Sidy