A bonus poem

New this morning

The Painting from the Junk-Store in Cotati

Winter trees on wheaten ground.
The morning sun a molten sphere
slung low in a turquoise sky.

I bought it, matted and framed,
from the local junk-store, a short walk
from where I’d come to live with him—
and hung it on the wall, opposite
the engraving of Vivaldi at a keyboard,
surrounded by angel musicians,
the random work of art I’d bought
that presaged my best-known novel.

And now that painting of winter trees
mirrors the landscape I see outside the window
first thing when I wake up, following another move
with the same man: the same leafless branches,
the same molten sun and turquoise sky.

Time has no meaning for works of art,
connected by gossamer threads from a cosmic spiderweb
spun between continents and centuries, linking
the otherwise disconnected parts
of what we call creativity.

Sometimes, in a certain light, I can see them tremble
with meanings I struggle to comprehend.

It’s reassuring to think that something I’ve fought
was perhaps meant to be,
in some way that, as yet, I’m unable
to see.


Copyright © 2026 by Barbara Quick

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