FREE VERSE POETRY
ALICIA HILTON
PAINTERLY WISDOM
She touches her favorite canvas
painted sixty-seven years ago
arthritic fingers once nimble
caress dried dabs of oil so carefully
placed by her hog bristle brush tactile
sensation makes eyes clouded by cataracts
see a winter memory dappled sunlight
gilding the frozen pond behind
Grandpa’s old red barn he led her
by the hand to see a fallen log
where beavers had built their home
she wanted to watch their fat tails slap
slapping against water but the beavers
were lounging inside their lodge
more sensible than her she’d forgotten
her cap a gust made dried reeds wave
a marsh wren perched on a cattail flew
towards a bald cypress bent with age
she wanted to capture the moment
Grandpa showed her how to hold
the paintbrush taught her pointillism
perfect for mimicking the texture
of tree bark feathers needed a more
delicate touch the wren puffed
against the cold refused to pose
hopped from one branch to another
finally flew to another cypress
a tear trickled down her cheek
Grandpa’s back was hunched
like the tree she wondered how
much longer he would live
he took the brush from her hand
dipped it in gray paint hazy clouds
were gathering they kept painting
until the sun swapped places
with the moon two summers later
Grandpa passed into the hereafter
twilight came too soon.
painted sixty-seven years ago
arthritic fingers once nimble
caress dried dabs of oil so carefully
placed by her hog bristle brush tactile
sensation makes eyes clouded by cataracts
see a winter memory dappled sunlight
gilding the frozen pond behind
Grandpa’s old red barn he led her
by the hand to see a fallen log
where beavers had built their home
she wanted to watch their fat tails slap
slapping against water but the beavers
were lounging inside their lodge
more sensible than her she’d forgotten
her cap a gust made dried reeds wave
a marsh wren perched on a cattail flew
towards a bald cypress bent with age
she wanted to capture the moment
Grandpa showed her how to hold
the paintbrush taught her pointillism
perfect for mimicking the texture
of tree bark feathers needed a more
delicate touch the wren puffed
against the cold refused to pose
hopped from one branch to another
finally flew to another cypress
a tear trickled down her cheek
Grandpa’s back was hunched
like the tree she wondered how
much longer he would live
he took the brush from her hand
dipped it in gray paint hazy clouds
were gathering they kept painting
until the sun swapped places
with the moon two summers later
Grandpa passed into the hereafter
twilight came too soon.
Alicia Hilton is an author, editor, arbitrator, professor, and former FBI Special Agent. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Modern Haiku, Neon, NonBinary Review, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 4, 5 & 6, and elsewhere. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association, and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association. Her website is https://aliciahilton.com. Follow her on Twitter @aliciahilton01.
