A leave of absence from the bells,
that trickle on the dusty road,
the ruts worn in by wagon wheels,
to market with their load,
the potatoes piled, the onions smiled,
the greens so set aside to protect their flush of green.
I stand before this painting,
pale blue cast like light from window
down upon me, forming trapezoided squares,
that, invisible, divide define the floor.
The painter had been court creature,
and his velvet would with many washings
once again resume the fluff of finery.
And yet, ghost queen of Vienna's brew,
would pack and package her retinue,
so she could look at this,
the peace of very peace,
within pastoral bliss.