In Monet’s Branch of the Seine Near Giverny,
            a cloud of light on the near-still river,
the rolling green banks, themselves half-real,
            half-shapes-on-water; the river itself
taking its unselfconscious time; Monet, taking his cut
            at the river—spread my ashes there,
in that light, that river, and while you’re at it
            baptize me, too. Awake before dawn,
he puts on his boots, the brown felt hat, wool socks
            and sweater, and crossing the road
through a mist off the meadow, reaches
            his spot. When light arrives, he’s ready.
In his floating studio, moored to the bank, fourteen
            half-finished canvases around him, fourteen dawns
slowly arriving on each—scatter me there,
            in those mornings, Monet at work,
in those rivers, moving from each to each, the damp rising
            through the soles of his shoes. The deep
wants to enter a man, ask him certain questions—here
            the palest purple, here a true black-green:
Is every morning the mind of God, or only certain ones?