Alberto Trebesky, Spring, 2010.
It looked like he was stealing
the golden yellow of ripe wheat,
the dark green of my leaves,
the grey of heavy-with-rain clouds.
I don’t know how he did it,
maybe he was a wizard,
he had to be.
The only thing I know is
that when he finished,
the canvass had a soul.
The Olive Tree Tales, n. 11
