He gets chilled or gets
tired and pulls the robe
around his waist or lays
his arms and head down
on the table and I try
to paint as much as
possible from my head
before I ask him to regain
the pose. He has fought
in a series of battles, lost
children and lost wives,
made a career and closed
it mostly reading books
and talking, marched in
petition and in opposition,
accompanied the dance
of plants and animals,
seen several continents in
peaceful times, sat in the
sun at all times of the day
in every season, built up
his body working and
watched it mostly disappear
while doing other work.
Now he has plenty of skin
and not much else, he
says. I look at all those
angles, lines, and surfaces--
chiaro, scuro, in the larger
light. The red robe. The smile
when he is rested or warmed.
His glance focused suddenly
upon me, as if his being
is the tip of a brush, his love
a very sure hand.

Tom Koontz
The Flying Island 1997