Portrait of Jean Cooke

Each morning, waking from death
to the surprise of an orange streaked sky,
she draws in life - paints behind her eyes
the striking plainness of a dark wood chair
blushing red in a glance of sun,
the tangled bed, her tousled hair
in the mirror's gaze - abstract angles
for the stroke of her brush.

She reaches beyond her eyes for her palette,
dips her brush in the new light,
glazing over his derision, striking out
his shadow to paint her loves,
an ungardened flush of blossom,
a tracery of moonlit trees, her children,
the swift crucifixion of doves.