Gold Poem by Peter Verbica

Klimt ladles his figures in gold

as if he were a gifted baker.



He dips and drizzles and drenches them,



like honey from a wood dipper

drowning a buttery brioche.



His hand keeps steady along certain lines,

his brush tempted by Midas

always to engulf more.



Still, his strong-willed women manage



to sneak out for a kiss,

to fight for Israel while the unsuspecting slumber,

to infuriate the Austrian Ministry of Education.



Fifty years wraps you both

in gold as well,



like California oat and wheat and rye,

curing under a summer sun.



The dusk brings the scent of the Bays

a cooler wind,

the subtlety of softer light.



And gold is good, don't get me wrong.



But, even Kilmt

with his big feet and smock

frees an apple tree

and poppies in a field,



and lets their colors blossom.



Perhaps like copper and nickel and zinc,

other colors have strengthened you, too.

These alloys from different decades

are your allies, got you ready for the gold.



Now I've sent your family and friends

to consult



with the moon,

and champagne,

with Monarch chrysalises,

and the wind singing through Serengeti grasses.



They're unanimous in their findings:

This is your brilliant year.



It's as if light like a Viennese artist

is painting the cobblestones on the road ahead of you

with gold for your anniversary.



Some say coincidence, but I argue providence.

It's just that obvious to me.
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["Gold" first appeared in the CatheXis Northwest Press, September issue,2018]