Late-Blooming Artist

by Mary Brunini McArdle

They opened up the balcony for us,
Because the day was mild and fresh,
And only sweaters needed for our chill.
I ventured on my three-pronged cane
And claimed a wicker rocking chair.

If there were birds singing,
I did not hear them.
If my companions spoke,
I did not know it.
A green expanse of land I saw,
Encircling a wide, smooth lake,
All details lacking to my failing eyes;
No trees, no silver fishes leaping.

But my imagination is a painter’s palette,
And the tendrils of my mind a brush.
I filled in potted periwinkles near the porch,
And put a winding road around the lake,
With clumps of thick hydrangeas on the grounds.
The morning sky I tinted lavender and peach,
And on the water placed eleven swans.