CLOUD NEBULAE

by Diana Gordon 

After Cloud Nebulae, oil on canvas by Claudia Sperry

Fingerprints smeared through rivers of raw umber, like tedders through a hayfield. Humid. 

I see, like turtles and dogs in clouds—smog from a distant metropolis sweating on sweet grass.  A clawed canvas, marks wanting in, paint under nails 

wanting into the divets of rough weave, wanting something not yet visible, guarded by a family  of ghosts. Huddled. 

I see rust under an August sun. Hay shining far from the sea. 
The ghosts squeezing out of hedgerows, aching for what ghosts ache for. 

In the real world, a grasshopper creeps on a wicker tabletop. Each leg deliberate, the hindmost 
raspberry red, backlit by sun. A canopy of oak leaves. Undulate.  

The insect can’t perceive the reality of me, too huge, too near, nor my kiln-fired mug  as it tiptoes by, its great eyes useless if I were the sort to squash grasshoppers.  

This is all. Oil paint, mineral tint, a field. Rust, hay, sea, longing. Clouds. One grasshopper, 
petticoat wings tucked, walking on wicker. ​