They conspired to paint the air
knowing that art
is not only a way
of seeing
but a way
of being,
a passion for the light,
a tenderness at heart
just short
of being wounded by the air,
a toughness too.

They conspired to paint the air,
to anatomize each light mote,
to imprism each speck of dust
until the air danced with color
and every inhaled breath
became a rainbow in the lungs.

Jasmine, tea leaf, camellia,
tuberose and thyme--the air
turning to color, the color
bleeding into earth, the
earth giving forth its forms,
its fossils, its sexual smells,
then closing over all.

They conspired to paint the air,
leaving their mark,
an obsessed life,
infinitely rich,
infinitely ripe,
tasting of peaches
and anemones,
red tile,
voile peignoirs
and air,
inhabited air.

© Erica Mann Jong

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