A vast canvas stretches before me with empty curved walls.
A white silence oppresses me — filling me with its heavy ringing.
It takes me a while to become aware of the soft rumbling
of distant movement: growing louder as it approaches.
The whiteness is interrupted by a twinkling of primrose, like candlelight.
The golden glow swells, creeping up the walls of the tunneled canvas.
Abruptly a cloud of shades of crimson, everglade, cerulean, and amethyst
embraces me; it moves steadfast in swirling colors, with vibrant speed.
Gasps of industrial fragrance are the last smell I know
before the sweeping wind seizes my breath; I fight the urge to blink--
try to capture the untouchable moment; my skirt ruffles,
and my hair lifts from my shoulders and whips across my face.
Before I am certain it is coming, it is gone.
Low purrs in the distance fade to nothing but the same empty tunnel.
The stains of color under my closed eyes are its only remnants left.
But, like a handprint in the sand, time will wash them away too soon.
“Metro” (1961): Oil on Canvas
by Joan Mitchell (1926-1992)
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