Lake George O'Keeffe

And when the household is in order,
And I feel free to work, it's nice.
The grey flag on the silver flagpole
Forms a perfect, still rectangle

Without a wind, as if it were tin.
My old shanty shapes a rhomboid,
Grey too, but containing many shades
So ghosts can move through the brushstrokes,

In spite of a thicket of oil paint.
There's a spiral pond to one side,
Too severely spherical for fish,
And a dark barn in the distance.

A storm cloud over the mountain range
Competes with the mountains for length
And for lower, darker silhouette.
Someday I will dwell in deserts

And contemplate bleached bones in the sun
And never come home to this green,
Curvaceous countryside that tempts me
To portray it in iron greys.

I will become known for my flowers,
For my love of relentless light,
For making skulls look luscious, but I
Will wear a circular black hat.