Monet almost blind and yet those are roses
because of the way
they fade, the way they sway.
Hear the song from a hundred years,
roses like your mother’s
To find under water the choir of trees,
the deep field, the rising arc of green.
Monet berated himself for seeing
his dead wife’s face as planes
and strands of light,
as an undiscovered galaxy.
Copyright 2016, Deborah Bacharach
Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). Her work has appeared in Poet Lore, Arts & Letters, The Antigonish Review, and New Letters, among many others. Find out more about her at DeborahBacharach.com.