Every time I came back
it was to stand surrounded
by the square front hall
oak and lemon smelling

Metal shaded lamps
to draw the eye at night
Orange tiger lilies bracketing
moss glazed fire place tiles

The Parlor door open
direct afternoon light
chased by muffled gray
on humid summer days

The Green Painting waiting
open armed on the far wall
above a crack lacquered
roll top desk

It always took me further
into its own dream world
of fog, a stream dividing
the marsh edge to edge

The blackened green
of pine and cypress arms
rooted in celadon grass
no bump elbowed woods

The artist had watched
smiling when my grandmother
first saw the canvas and
took it wet from the easel

Thanks tossed back
she walked out the door
into the mist blocked morning
off home to hang it for me