Sun Sails

Annette, this is an ekphrastic poem for Art as Poetry. The painting is below. Let me know what you think.

In the cafe in the small town where the waters meet, we sit outside in a courtyard. Large triangles of canvas crisscross above our heads on heavy-duty wire. The rooted smell of coffee perks familiar. How many coffees have we drunk together? He holds a chair for me. Bistro tables hold promise yet are impractical to sit at. The chairs are painted celadon, a dewy glaze of green. "What are those called?" I ask the waitress, looking up. I am blinded by the sun-dazzled weave. "Sun sails." She smiles a full-furled smile. I am enamored by her nose ring, the smudge of paint on the back of her calf. "Sun sails," I repeat under my breath, pleased at the way the words leave my mouth. "What did you say?" he asks, holding his hand to the plaid pocket of his shirt as if retaking a pledge. "Sun sails," I say again, respite between us like placid water. The coffee arrives in ceramic mugs. My chair stutters on the paving squares as I stretch my legs, grasping the mug in two hands. My muscles tighten with the miles we've hiked. The sun sails cast angular shadow across his lower jaw, on the planter in the middle of the courtyard. I recognize impatiens bobbing in the clay bowl, bright pink. Cerise, I think, the same color as the calf smudge, the sun sails. We row about the other plant. A kind of lily, we think—dark green, palm-shaped leaves. When I say row, I mean squabble like the long-married. The courtyard creates a channel for the breeze that picks up, which stirs and swirls around us. We listen to the wires moan as they pull and slack, pull and slack. He assesses the configuration of sail and wire. "I could make that for you, if you wanted," he says. "Yes, I would like that," I say, crossing my ankle over his in the cherry-red shade.

Remember That Day
Lynn Peters