February changes everything,
the old routine makes way,
the sounds of Thursdays no more sing
the end of our busiest day.
Our Tuesday afternoons repaid,
though I still don't have the time.
I have always hated Tuesdays
and been often justified.
I watch a glassy night sky,
crissed and crossed with streams,
growing white and fading light,
it's like a string-art piece
worked through nails on a board.
I think of Rita Rembrandt
and how she was so calm and quiet,
I remember her quoting Ingres,
"draw lines, young man, draw lines"
to Delacroix, a man after our own hearts.
She worked in ramshackle rooms,
few of the buildings were not falling apart
(Sr. Martin's foot had once gone through
the ceiling of the class below).
Spring is up and I'm still in bed,
my thoughts are back in 1994,
I can see my life-drawing sketch,
double-checking the head-to-body ratios,
though it is too late to change anything.
(Explanation: I was lying on my bed one evening and saw a number of plane streams in the sky, it was absolutely beautiful.
My Leaving Cert. art teacher was Rita O'Connell. Obviously, we called her Miss O'Connell to her face, but we called her Rita Rembrandt behind her back, not a bad nickname at all if you knew what we called other teachers. What a lady! I don't know how she put up with us.
I have been waiting for 2018 to properly start at our house, we did two rounds with the 'flu, one person at a time out of me and my two daughters. My husband got away with it, not one sniffle. So, good riddance January and please let us be back to normal from today.)
