In The Museum Poem by Morgan Michaels

Quite something it was to see
how in the museum, around the famous image
by Monet, the poet of waters, running and still,
the Master of Givenchy, painter of green-running rivers,
yellow arches of bridges, wands of yellow willows
trailing their tips in the water's depths;
star-flowers sitting squarely a-squat flat pads
stems cork-screwing down into the water's velvety dark
above eel-grass undulant in swales below the current's jade,
shadows and reflections everywhere, mystery compounding,
shadows and glints of color there and here
the outcome and culmination of time spent
in the shrewd, impassive, life-long observance of Nature-
observance being essentially an act of worship-
taking time and reams of patience to begin to refine;
reflections that hint at the mind of the Creator,
reflections that make for the highest end of living,
reflections that poultrice the insult of living itself,
unburdened by any cloying bourgeois 'should'-
water, air.....