Tanya Standish McIntyre, Quatrain in Blue (Website, Twitter, Instagram)
Collage and mixed-media on Russian plywood mounted on salvaged rowboat, 21 x 48 in

On water, on air, the geese
were equally surrendered
to movement, perfect in
balance, between their will
and the wind
that ran them in slow circles
all afternoon, like a poet
pacing in a turret, in a novel
set in Paris (everything
black, white, and grey). 

An odd leaf blew
  up
          and away, caught in
a current, far, now farther, farther
from the mass—how my bones
would like to fall into the broken
fern but wait—now the leaf flies
like a kite seized upon by wind—it turns
into a golden finch—reminds me  

I told
         the world
I had something to give, and it waits. 

It sits in a bowl like sourdough
in a windowless pantry, yet to be—
I have not acquired wrapping,
nor ribbon for this gift. 

I sit still until my will
adheres to a shape, even though I cry
and scream:
          “I thought it would be easier.” 

The smallest steps, a wise wind
says, until you fall into pace—I know

it is hard
to walk between
the weightless
light and the lead
of earth.

Tanya Standish McIntyre

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS