Poem: Monet on the Bridge by Mark Tulin

I imagine Monet
setting up his easel
on the wooden bridge
that I walk on every day.

It overlooks the stone creek
that tunnels through the trees
and thorny succulents
warmed by the yellow sun.

Monet would have painted
the light and shadow
of the waterless creek
that used to flow so effortlessly.

Now a bed of rocks and bones
of stories never told,
of people whose pastel-colored
lives were washed away.

Monet would have seen
the shadows of the slinky trees,
mauve and gold.
Honey dripping off the branches
of Eucalyptus trees.

Only Monet could have expressed
what I could only see.
Only Monet would have known
how to transport those rocks of gold
into a momentary dream.