Hand To Hand

Imagine making a painting
of a local pond—dark, brooding
with a cow and its keeper
with your own hands.

Imagine a man visiting a museum
in his slippers on a different continent
more than a century later,
stooped and weak from disease,

the weight of all his regretted days behind him.
He stands alone, a private moment
in this quiet gallery, his hand down by his hip
he uses it to wave goodbye.