woodandhoney

Séraphine, I think of you

painting alone in a small bedroom,

full of secrets only you know,

the secrets of the river and the birds.

Séraphine, I think of you

painting enveloped by candlelight in a large room

pouring out everything true you know in red and orange.

Séraphine, you heard the song of the little bird and you left

taking all your secrets and leaving us your truths.

Séraphine, I think of you

when I paint alone into the dusk.

clearly not knowing any of the things you did

but terrified nonetheless of the little bird’s song.