In the raking light of time the foreground’s hard to see,
But we can surmise the chair is wood, lion’s head
Roaring eternally. It’s not the art of light and dark
That gives the girl such anima (we witness
The pause between breaths, the short-lived
Note of the lute no longer hanging in the air;
Even the birds have paused, deferring to Vermeer);
It’s the air he’s painted, the air manifested
In her hair, fingers, gaze. Chiaroscuro
Is a ghost in the room, the intelligence of silence
Defined by light: The grace of each moment,
Now and now and now. As if the artist was always
Present, now, capturing on canvas this ekphrasis.
