Where the Sun Falls Slant
I must have caught the eye of this young girl
who grew to age and died some centuries
before I ever saw her. At her side,
another kneels; there’s a whole company
in their fine robes in this room where the light
comes through a casement, through the open door
a man is standing in, back in the gloom.
Velázquez sees me too. With brush in hand,
he’s paused before his canvas at the work
of making this scene last four hundred years
for random eyes like mine. The very dog
at a companion’s feet is full of life,
as though it might get up to chase a ball
or bark or pad across the floor. And yet,
as spring turns into summer and the years
tick onward, girl and dog and company
wait for Velázquez. Will he take his brush
and paint some more? He’s seen me. Surely now
his interest will wane; there’s work needs doing,
in this apartment where the sun falls slant.
John Isbell
If you have any thoughts about this poem,
John
Isbell would like to hear them.
