On this particular afternoon there are Avalanche Lilies in the vase
(instead of snow) and the one kneeling across the table appears
Like a moth in clean white cotton. The tiniest candle is not there
Where it should be on the mantle, not there, where it should be on the table.
Light comes in through slats of wooden shutters.
I wear red terrycloth that sweeps the floor, and for a moment I pretend I have time
For a discussion on Flemish painting with The Master of Flemalle.
I sit by the fire and see how my room doesn't open,
How it is submerged inside snowlight
As if it were a scene inside a Christmas tree ball.
If I shake it hard enough, snow will fall on the floor
And the one with the serpentine crown, kneeling across the table
Will speak to me -- give me altitude, give me the sky that he holds in his right hand.

Copyright Erika Bauer, 1991. Write: erika@ebstudios.com
Published in the Santa Clara Review, Fall 1991.
Published in the Denver Quarterly, Winter 1992.