Another Ekphrastic Poem

Picasso's Insomnia After Final Self Portrait

idnight in the emerald garden,
and I long for the moon to drown
me in its shadow, the sky to soothe
with its blackness, for stars to stave off
the unshaven stubble of insomnia,
heavy and brown like mud.

If I could dream, my body would race
backward with the swiftness of the Seine.
I’d dance with a barefoot maiden
in a cornfield, my green forehead
obscured by a wide straw hat.
I’d inhale the apple of her hair,
see the lake’s mirror in her blue eyes.
I’d strut in the willows, limbs nimble
with the greed of youth.

Still awake, I find sleep slow-footed,
dragging its shackles.



Mary L Westoctt