She pops up unexpectedly–
beneath the darkening canopy of trees
in the deep woods,
from behind a stack of boxes
in a corner of the basement,
or like now,
in a quiet gallery at the back of the art museum:

 "Beautiful, yes?"

"It is," I answer.

"Like it?"

"Very much."
I continue to stare at the painting,
lost in color, rhythm, light.

"Analyze it," she says.

"What?"
I turn toward her.
"You want me to analyze the painting?"

"No. Analyze why you like it."

I book back to the painting,
now in my head and no longer my heart.
The spell has broken.
"I…I don't know why I like it.
Do I need to explain?"

"No, and that's my point.
We don't need reasons for our preferences,
but we spend tremendous effort
trying to justify them.
Insecurity craves explanation.
Passion is sufficient to itself."

The painting glows again;
I have descended from my mind
back to reality:
    I walk the path
    beside the violet stream
    in a landscape luminous with hazy sunlight and solace.

Text and
image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.