In a Southern Garden: After Bonnard

The woman who dreams, who combs her hair,
undresses, bathes, sets fruit on the table,
who stands at the mirror, or by the door,
the woman who lies in the blue expanse of her bath,
watches the window, the landscape
arranged before her, and for her.
During certain hours and over great spaces
the light reveals itself, green crossings
of the palms, yellow of mimosa, that sudden transparence
as she sits half-asleep in a southern garden.
The light is the subject, you said,
the light is our god.
And now it is the unexpected
snow on the petals of the almond trees,
and a few friends, the few who are left
to follow the coffin, who pause a moment
and cannot help but see it,
all of this, as if it were still yours.