On a cold winter morning I have a class
At the Museum of Fine Arts.
The frosty wind awakens me.
I turn to the river and there,
Like a still life created overnight:
Muddy ice, shaped like dirty brushes,
A mallard crossing to the other side,
A plastic bottle floating in the water hole.
As I run up the granite steps
I know what to paint today.
Brookline, Massachusetts
