was near death." (From a biographical sketch by
the Columbus Museum of Art)
And how near, Death?
And did Sisley know?
Did anyone mention that he had been
Fully Recognized?
Did anyone tell
him?
And what was it like, to have been told?
Did sooted ceilings give way to plein air?
The very elements oblige his presence,
sitting there: gravid skies withhold their humours
and winds resign their errant ways?
Shadows stay their path?
Was it as if the clouds paused in willful drift,
and skiffs stayed moored mid-sail;
water's reflections were cast
in stone? And solitary figures lived
Xeno's paradox returning home?
Had he always known
he would be recognized?
Had recognition ever mattered?
Had he, nonetheless, loved every stroke of
his brush, his hand, his sponge,
his pen?
Was it the coup de grace
or his salvation?
His cruelest torment
or vindication?
Or, was it, perhaps,
too late?
A furry, bitter bite of
Persimmon?
And did he die,
nonetheless?
Did he shrug, or nod,
or rage, or sob, or sigh, or laugh
insanely,
or,
did he
smile, then close
his
eyes?
Sisley's talent was not fully recognized
until he was
near death.