Art Critic

a poem

I wander my garden
like the gallery of a museum,
peering with shrewd attention
at the varying shades of green

sprouting through the topsoil.
Lips pursed, just so, I tilt my head
as I examine the first leaves
of the bleeding heart and hostas,

as if they each bear a tiny bronze plaque
about the artist—what’s-his-name
from you-know-where—and his particular
technique. I move on, hands clasped

behind my back, satisfied that yes,
spring has indeed made a come back,
and yes, his oeuvre remains
as exceptional as always.

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