If . . .
I were an artist, I would
paint a portrait of my daughter.
I would gather paints of pure colors,
Alizarin Crimson, Blue, Yellow,
Titanium White, Ivory Black;
a pristine white canvas,
conjure up images of infant, girl, woman,
run them through my mind’s eye
like digital blurs from silver cameras:
struggle to portray the fire,
courage,
nobleness,
the intangible aura of this Psyche
with hair the color of old gold coins,
flesh warmer than marble but
with all its translucence, her spirit
flying from the canvas with such impact
as to leave the viewer stunned. And the eyes -
blue as Mediterranean water -
limpid, penetrating, unerringly nailing
the destructive baggage within our hearts.
She would seem to be stepping
from the frame which holds her, illuminated
by the golden thread she spins
to scatter darkness from our paths;
a prismatic light passing through the spectrum
of our lives, balancing our needs
on the crystal scale she carries in her hands.
It may be impossible to capture her essence
with the stroke of a brush, a palette of earthy colors,
but if I were an artist, I would try,
and I would want her portrait in a museum,
her gaze holding generations who stare and wonder,
“Who was this woman? Did she really live?”