Laura Ann Reed

Speechless

sometimes on the steps you forget that unlike a window
you cannot cast unbroken light.

you forget kinship as when, after rain, the violet dirt
between the gravestones keeps the color of the sky.

sometimes before a painting such as Rembrandt’s Woman Bathing
you are speechless, not because such beauty leaves you undone

but because the consolation taken by the artist’s eyes
in the curves and hollows of the familiar body
goes beyond words.

sometimes you forget that unlike a window
you can, for a time, cast a shadow

then remembering, a vast expanse of stillness
like a field of black quartz flashes behind your eyelids.

Laura Ann Reed: Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, I’m now living in retirement with my husband in the Pacific Northwest. After completing a master’s degree program in the performing arts, I taught modern dance and ballet at the University of California, Berkeley, where I received my bachelor’s degree in French/Comparative Literature. I lived for one year in Aix en Provence, France while attending a French university. I additionally completed master’s degree programs in clinical psychology and in career development, and then served in the role of Leadership Trainer to the senior level scientists and supervisors at the San Francisco headquarters of the Environmental Protection Agency, during the Clinton Administration. Late in life, I began studying poetry with a series of mentors. lauraannreed.net