Paul Klee Pink Springs in Deep Winter, 1932
Spectacular: the way pink petals open
against an equally pink
sky. Each brush stroke: a stem
that connects to other stems,
to fine lines, and blooming buds.
If I look closely,
I see a map, cracked
glass, and tiny veins.
The blueprint of my own clumsy
body, too, projected onto the clouds.
My ribs, my crooked teeth, the scar
on my right cheek.
My hard, unassuming breasts.
My legs, bruised from
knocking into objects
I forget are there.
On the canvas, struggle becomes
grace: awkwardness its own
kind of beauty. Here where
even the warmest hues
bloom from snow.
A single crocus muscles
its way into open air:
past bark, thorn, and rock.
Past ice and mud. Its bud
no bigger than a clenched
fist. Its undersides crimson
—a color I so often
confuse with the body’s
vibrant contusions.