Portrait Of A Memory Poem by Heath Harrington

Oh Mary, where do I start?
How can I say what I feel?
I can try to illustrate, love
At first conception, like the
Poets of old. Who spun tales with,
Hair of gold and angels on high.
Those trite sketches of beauty
Have no place here on my canvas.

With my camel hair brush
In on hand and palette in the other,
I start at the feet where my Venus
Becomes rooted into my reality.
Your bantam toes become my focus
As they leap upon the easel ready
To walk away. If my memory serves
A skirt that day was what you wore,
Revealing your bare legs for
Me and the world to see.
Skin so smooth like
Milk pouring into a glass
'What color for these? 'I ask
Myself and settle for what I have,
Brown, white, and a touch of red.
The warm paint melts onto the paper, bringing
Your legs to life. The crispness of the air
That day still affects your thin veneer
Coaxing veins to emerge from the depths
Of your body. I must keep painting for fear
Of losing you to the ravages of memory.
Every part springs onto the page.
I can't apply the paint fast enough
To appease the urge to gild your form.
Blues and greens for your dress
And browns with white for your coat,
It's all coming together from your
Petite waist to your delicate hands.

Then I stop, how can I frame
Your beautiful face? Puzzled and
discouraged I fret for hours.
Do I have the talent required?
Then it strikes me from stained glass,
A church Window, Santa Maria, it's your eyes
The look of peace and contentment. How
Can I be there? The idyllic beauty of the virgin
is the truth of yours and the old masters agree,
the idea is more important than the reality. At last
I try to capture the same, in the portrait of my love Mary.

Brown like a hot mocha
On a winter day, are your eyes.
Serenity lives there with my love.
With my last stroke to cover the white
Your eyes come alive. Tears flow
And I rest in knowing this maybe
As close as I'll ever come to you, Mary.