The Dutch Room's frames hang desolate this year.
Cut savagely was Rembrandt's Galilee,
ripped too, The Concert, by Johannes Vermeer,
and five drawings, signed Degas, pried hastily.
Experts say, the two were amateurs--
Europa would have been among their haul,
they grabbed Chez Tortoni, like scavengers.
In the Gallery, blank space imbues a wall
with eeriness, as questions fill my mind.
I wonder here what Rembrandt's thinking now:
If Christ could calm that sea, no doubt he'll find
Two decades, since the early morning heist,
a path back to this hallowed ground, somehow.
and still no sign of Rembrandt, or of Christ.
Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston, MA
Sweet hyacinth and narcissus of spring--
captured, in her still-life, under glass.
No children--none will claim effects or bring
home remnants of a life which come to pass,
and call to mind childhood's memory.
Instead--I search for hints in kitchenware,
in patchwork quilts and costume jewelry;
Venetian glass, a trunk's book-matched veneer.
Among the photos of young soldiers back
from war, I find a clover, pressed in pages.
Together, fifty years, I piece and tack--
golden, right up to the final stages.
I'll take the hand-carved Lincoln rocking chair.
At home, I'll lightly polish wear and tear.