There's a print
on the white-washed wall
of Vermeer that Grandmother
lent him to practice his
painting. Everything falls
faint and far away. Lemon light
trips across his brooding
canvas. Breeze stirs
from the sea, through blue
gales to gray
evenings. Grandmother's tales
of ordinary miracles.
He remembers, painting pears.
The realness of things.
Magic beans, enchanted stairs.
It was an apple that withered a garden.
