The Quarry, Pontaise
Pissarro, 1875
To enter into the greens
of this picture—
forest, emerald, jade–
is to drown in the bristle of
pine needles or in leaves
that are more than leaves
the way landscapes in dreams
are more than themselves,
dredged as they are
in the colors of sleep.
On the long road winding its way
through the painting,
I can just make out
a small woman, dwarfed
in this universe of color
but alive still
in the green, intractable
mysteries of paint.
