the perfect circle

i feigned sickness
to be close to my mother
the days long and gray
the mountains slatted
with cold spring rain
and the clanking trains
on the winding tracks
that ran along the river


canvasses strewn
sticky with paint
and the strong smell
of turpentine on rags
laying in the corners
of the smoky room
made me drowsy
and faint


and always
out the window
through the mist
a witness tree
a solitary sentinel
on top of the hill
its lacy branches
forming a perfect circle
against a willing sky