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Courtyard Blues
January 9, 2020
She wandered her courtyard
lacking emotion or
incentive as she peered
at the too-perfect garden,
the too-perfect rows of flowers,
matching her too-perfect life.
Her quintessential air
did nothing to reassure her
that she is of any
importance.
The icy railing was
clutched by her equally frigid
hand. If she were to
disappear, nothing would
change. Absolutely
nothing.
© Christine C., Arden Hills, MN
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I wrote this poem in Ireland after visiting a museum and admiring a painting of a woman in a courtyard. I wanted to create a story behind the painting.