We will all have them, experience them, feel them,
unless we keel over too quickly to respond.
Renoir knew those days—felt the pain, the loss
and the grief of not creating any more.
He was an Impressionist, he and his fellows
dared to paint outside, paint in the light,
let the light bother them, fight and love the light.
And oh, what beauty—a tiny girl in a fancy dress,
the many blues reflecting the light,
gently tips her watering can.
A crowd dances in a festive garden in Paris,
light reflecting off deep blue colors.
Renoir honored his friends, his life,
Placed his wife to be and good friends
in Luncheon Of The Boating Party,
the light reflecting their laughter.
At the end of life, his last days.
rheumatoid arthritis struck,
hands, shoulders deformed,
painting impossible, a servant
bandaged his hand to a brush,
a last try, desperation. then no more.
At his request, wheeled him into the studio.
In the darkened room, the light now staring
at him through the windows,
he slowly washed his brushes,
arranged the paints he could ply no more.
Was that pathos or heroism?
We will only know if we get there.
In our own time.
Originally published in Grey Sparrow Journal