Outside,
With brush and paint,
She works to catch
On an empty canvass
A quicksilver light
Glimmering for an instant
In wavering shadows,
Faint shapes,
Dappled colors,
Before the light
Escapes
Into thin air
And fading clouds,
Night,
All lost forever.

She thinks that quicksilver
Lends itself to the imagination,
Fills a brief moment
With incredible music
Stolen from the vibrant mosaic
Of shadows and light
In the golden leaves
Wavering for an instant
Before slipping from the hand
And eye,
Slowly disappearing,
Gone.

Only this remains:
These shadows, those shapes, that light,
Delicately frozen
In imitations of paint,
Like a rose cut from a garden,
A moment stolen,
Standing
Still.