Testa Di Giovinetta by Leonardo da Vinci

The Artist

His paints and brushes cast aside
he’d sat for days
in the garden of his discontent. 
Inspiration escaped him at every turn
and still his paints and pallet sat untouched.
The sun played coyly with the leaves
that adorned the trees around his bench
and a gentle breeze caressed his ears
almost taunting in its whispers.

She will never come,
you wait for her in vain.
She will never come. 

A shudder seemed to grip his heart
as tears flowed unimpeded down his face
and he bent his head and buried it
in trembling hands.
The painter with no soul to guide his brushstrokes;
the spirit broken, lost
among the shadows on the wall.
With a cry he raised his face up to the sky
his hands uplifted, as he uttered his plea.

She will come!
Don’t let me wait in vain
She must come!

As his sobs subsided
the whispers of the wind became a hymn
so faint he hardly heard it
but when he lifted doubtful eyes 
still he sat alone among the stone
and with a sigh
he let his heart declare defeat 
let his soul prepare to lie among the leaves
that rustled at his feet.

She will not come.
I have waited here in vain
she will not come.

The sun brushed off the clouds
and draped a warmth across his shoulders
like the touch of gentle hands
and when he looked upon his canvass
he could not believe his eyes.
There rested a visage so angelic
that it took his breath away
and with trembling fingers
he traced her with tender lines.

She has come! 
The spirit of my inspiration
at last she has come!

They called him mad as he hunched 
above his pad, pencil in hand,
and none of them could understand
how the sun remained upon him
in rays like golden ribbon as he drew,
but later, when he completed
both art and life, they knew
he’d done his greatest work his dying day
and scrawled these words across the back

I knew she would come.


february 2005
©Janet Reid