Artist’s Dream—the name of this sea-saturated
rental, bearing the imprint of its owners
in dusty keepsakes, photos, and paintings.

His paintings—dark-eyed junco colors
of cerulean blue and brooding gray,
hang in every room, mirroring
window views of the Pacific.

In the photo, she stands behind the
smiling man, hands firmly on the handles
of the wheelchair, her body leaning
forward to push, support, love.

I’ve salt-soaked almost a week before I notice
the small picture in the alcove—
all tan, sepia, and umber,
colors of my desert life.

A sea captain’s face, thoughtful eyes,
gaunt cheeks, requisite long-stemmed pipe.
His hand raised to his face, or ear.
Years of ocean’s thunder must have
muted softer voices.

I walk close, reach out,
surprised when my fingers feel
texture, thread and fabric—in this
house of oils.

The only picture not from
his brushes. Is she a brown wren
hiding in the terra-cotta?

Perhaps her hands stitched the ribbing
of the woolen cap, trying to say,

I was here too.