Confession Time
Writing a Poem with Monet It’s April and I’m growing green, but bills cover my desk. The money in my check book dazzles like the mineral caves carved by the surf at Pourville, where Monet stood at his easel to paint thundering waves. I sign my check in the lower right as artists will, re-total the balance and turn up a new one. Diamonds a mile down in Monet’s sea crack, chip, and erode. A…