For Margarete Bagshaw at Fifty ( 11-11-64 to 3-19-15)
Life marches on doesn’t it?
One canvas after another,
the way her smile and images catch my heart.
In her own word, phoenix.
She rises again and again.
Shows me how to live on the
edge of a line and cut trail back.
What is a modernist, I ask myself
and she tells me how the old times
began to shape it: Pablita, her mother, Helen.
How she built on the shoulders of
her mother’s secret.
How she shared it openly.
She sat in her gallery
a month ago, I recall,
resting for a moment and
the next I knew,
supernova, a big flash and gone.
This plane longs for her to
water our dreams.
Teach us how to grow from a seed.
This is how I start it, she told me
the answer in a child’s voice: