by Eric Weil

My mother was a painter, in oils, of things
that stayed still: New England’s hills in autumn
and winter, dinghies at wharves, and daisies

in vases beside oranges; also the sea,
always the restless Atlantic, its waves,
the contrasting geometry of a pier. She placed

her easel beside the sliding glass door
that provided her essential northern light,
and from time to time, she stepped back

to gain perspective on the arrangement
of color, shade, and light that became a painting.
A squint, a cluck of the tongue, then back

to the canvas with brush and palette knife.
Now 90, she watches today’s snow fall
as if it is every snow she has ever seen,

and I step back for perspective
that might show me the artist
who raised me, not this frail lady

in her last bedroom, all the names
and places of her life sunk in memory’s mire.
But, for a moment like a meteor

streaking the sky, I see her watching
the snow with that younger painter’s vision,
a gift for both of us, if only she could know it.

Eric Weil lives in Raleigh, NC. His poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in The Louisville Review, Kakalak 2024, Pinesong, Brillig, and Main Street Rag. He has three chapbooks in print: A Horse at the Hirshhorn, Returning from Mars, and Ten Years In.