Poem

My friend gave an art talk at the museum. She is a tall, quiet woman with a strong presence. She wears pale turquoise
woven from the sea she loves.Behind her the brush strokes on her large paintings dance through pink and gold layers.
She explains the abstract quality people see in her painting is actually realism based on enlarged details of odd bits of the
landscape: the ground, walls, water, and writing.
Her quiet voice describing her lively work stirs interesting dialog. 
Her views on perception and humanity echo mine yet the interpretation is as different as a sweater turned inside out.
She sees humanity in the landscape and I see landscape in the face. The intersection of our interests is layers of humanity.

Following her talk, I eat lunch with another friend at the restaurant called Nooner which has luscious combinations of healthy ingredients.
She sits across  from me at the outdoor table in a dazzling white hat and red rimmed sunglasses.
They become a movie screen for visualizing the family stories she shares while the whiteness of her hat accentuates their impact.

I tell her of my attempt to write about my earliest powerful memory of glass and its relationship to my grandmother.
The memory is crystal clear and the writing isn't. She says it has strong imagery and could be a poem;
saying "use nouns, leave out adjectives, they are weak". 

I see my friend, hear her stories; observe hat, glasses, hand-knit wool socks, buttons, black leather, clarity and strength.
Is that a poem-? No, I don't think so.

But she is.

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