Peonies in Payne’s Gray

The winter our father died,
my sister and I took a six week
oil painting class in a strip mall.
The first week a mountain scene,
the next two a seascape, the final three
reserved for peonies. We wanted to paint
only the peonies.

Hiroko owned the shop, sold brushes,
paints, led us through disciplined steps.
Index finger to the crimp for pressure
she whispered over my shoulder.
Mountains ascended in Burnt Sienna,
Ochre, Chromium Yellow. Palette knife
loaded with Prussian Green, the trunks of trees
rolled up the blade shoulder to point.

The next week the seascape. A single stiff wave
in Cerulean Blue, indigo, edged in foam.
Two gulls, four strokes each of Payne’s Gray
hovering over rock. Shoreline, wave,
tower of basalt, heavy clouds above,
and through them a shaft of light.

We were in California then,
beaches in primary colors: sand, sun, sky,
but we perched straight-backed
every Wednesday night:
Contour in gray and white,
locate a crack in the cloud,
pull the light through.

Melody Wilson is a pushcart nominated poet whose poems appear in VerseDaily, The Fiddlehead, Crab Creek Review, San Pedro River Review, Cloudbank and elsewhere. She is pursuing her MFA at Pacific University. Her chapbook, Spineless: Memoir in Invertebrates came out in 2023. Find more of her work at melodywilson.com.