Monet at the Louvre
by Lori Lamothe
While others set their easels before Old Masters
and copied the fall of shadow across fruit
you moved yours to a window
to sketch riffs on clouds,
the swish of women's skirts,
a line of carriages, restless horses.
Even at 17, you never tired of the way the light
ebbed before surging back onto the canvas
again and again - as if anyone at all
could catch the simple genius of the sun.