The Artist’s Model

It’s a little after four in the morning, the dawn’s
first stirrings
has set the glass in the French doors aglow
spreading the soft, gray light everywhere
at once,
where he is,
no revelation to his rested eyes, as he rolls over
onto his side
and looks upon the face of the woman
he loves
sleeping beside him.
He waits quietly for her to open her eyes so he can
tell her what he saw:
She was modeling nude, posed just so on a small stool,
the day’s light streaming down from above
the artist working fast
to capture the delicate curves of her body
and the shadows they cast
for the moment an object for the artist’s eye.
Suddenly, she moves, standing up and walking
toward him,
carrying the light with her, her skin aglow,
and settles on his lap.
Both are now aglow in the studio’s dimness,
The artist’s palette of colors and brush
forgotten in the shift.


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