Rectangles of light fall on Mount Sainte-Victoire,

as the colors shift, and evening’s violet cashmere

softens the landscape. I’d like to edit out

the industrial world, keep only the ochre hills, the dark

umbrella pines, the cold blues of the mountain and sky.

Give me life without newspapers, e-mail, and faxes,

TV, DVD, video, radio; let me sit in the sun like a cat

while patches of shadow move over my arms

as the day wears on. Where breakfast is a flaky

roll that shatters when I bite it, that sings like the sun

in my mouth. Where lunch is a ripe pear, slab

of melting cheese, baton of bread, all crust;

and dinner, with its dark wine, white china, heavy silver,

waits like an orchestra tuning up in the wings. And the mountain

turns lilac, gold, rose; colors the air around it, falls on my hair,

my crêpe de Chine dress, and, for a while, erases time’s tiny lines,

restores the smooth planes of my face, puts me back in my younger skin.

On the last day of my life, I’d like to be working, like Cézanne,

even if it means being pulled home in a laundry cart and dying of pneumonia.

I want to be out there, singing, as the rain comes down, solid blocks of purple, blue.