perhaps

it is the lateness of the hour coupled
with the storm outside that draws me out
of sleep. The repetition of its theme.
A waking dream. Of bridging distance
with that hope of resting safely on the
other side. And all the subsequent
iconographic variations that stretch a
wish to grasp originality. To hold it
in one's hand. To wrap around the form
of it. Classical, perfectly balanced,
harmonious form. Artistic wish to record
the feeling in a gesture. Some subtle
placement that draws it out along a
face. Physiogamy stretched across the
surface of a composition. Brushed with
tangibility. Oil on canvas.

Raffaello Sanzio's The Tempi Madonna of 1508
pulls me out of sleep and into wakefulness
again. Its 16th centuried costume lacking any
ornament. No embellishment displayed. Just the
ample sweep of her dark cloak. And how it spills
from headtonecktohips along the back, embracing
both. Spiralling down a glance to draw the eye
back up again. To keep us out. Two faces held
together by a single thread of meaning. Downcast
eyes. The shadow in between the child's flesh.
So gently pressed against her cheek and twisted
out. Her skin exudes a free but subtle feeling,
the tender face of sublimity-in-surrender. Her
testimonial; that she belongs to someone else.
Her tenderness is the colour pink she wears.
The hand that softly rests upon the child's back.
The essence of this touch. That it contains their
vast vulnerability.

Holding up and pouring in between these two.
The look upon her face that keeps me up.

A wish to make it so.

"That is why you are endless,
gather me up as if you were
all solemnity, all nocturnal
like a zone until you merge
with the lines of time."
(Pablo Neruda)