Poem Hunter
The Artist
(1957 / Columbus, NE)

The Artist

Sparkling like Columbia’s living jewels
Just below the froth of the current
Beyond reach,
Her eyes bespeak an ancient Bering crossing –
Some trace of Asia made native by eons.
They are at home and a home.
Those eyes warmed by Pacific rays.
I am drawn to those eyes.

They sparkle and fly
Beneath that rich umber curtain
That flashes fire in the sun.
Oh that silken hair – I long to comb it with my fingers.

She glows as she stares at the canvas
(And I at her, unnoticed
As she eyes a verdigris streak lately brushed) .
She dabs and dobs,
But even her wondrous talent
Can never match God’s creation that is she.

How I long to come up behind her
And wrap my arms about her
And have her lean back into me,
Forgetting her labors as her eyes close
And her smile spreads languorously
While I nuzzle her neck and nibble her ear
And feel the gentle swell of her bottom
Against my growing urgency….

She takes up another brush
And I remain a silent spy
Seeing her as she is and as I dream her
In my arms accepting my passion.

She is a Cascadian mystery
And one day, I hope to explore her.
Perhaps I ask too much;
Another amorous imperialist
Guilty of wanting what is not his….

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