[James Brancheau]

Rev. 2

Portrait of a Landscape Painter

I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach

of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real

on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood

of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more

physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line

in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple

and distant. I can’t grasp
your night and day, feather

in your faintest light, cast
shadows fine enough to slip

past a frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple

your fluid moon, finesse its
bright path to the bend of

heaven, or cake on your light,
make bones of reflections.




Rev.

Landscapes

I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach

of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real

on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood

of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more

physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line

in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple

and distant. I can’t grasp
your night and day, feather

in your faintest light, cast
a shadow that slips beyond

the frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple

your fluid moon, take its
bright path to the bend of

heaven, or scatter your death,
make bones of reflections.




*Notes: reflections vs your reflections








Landscapes

I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach

of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real

on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood

of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more

physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line

in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple

and distant. I can’t fake
your night and day, feather

in the faintest light or stretch
your shadows beyond

the frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple

your fragile moon, pave
a bright path to the bend

of heaven or scatter the water
with the bones of reflection.