it remains yet to satisfaction unanswered my repeated inquiries regarding the winter activities of Mr. Monet when the blossoms of intoxicating French spring finally resigned their beauty to snow's harsh truths and warm gentle waters reluctantly denied their summer's ambitions and gave in oh ever so reluctantly to ice swallowing the all too familiar lilypads and yielding futile the once triumphant bridges now hidden between icicles and snow

it remains yet to satisfaction unanswered what substance he survived on then when his gardens subdued to winter when his paintbrush having watched so helplessly oh ever so reluctantly beauty abandon its needing presence as if the defiant but not impenetrable faith of Elie Wiesel when even the creative impending blindness of his cataracts could not offer Impressionism its crucial influence

perhaps he felt as I now do surrendering as yet another She leaves leaving empty the poet's love without a soul to write of a name to mutter every waking second or even so much as a face to worship imprinted in ballads of youthful romance all breaking even the Herculean strength of my desire to love

perhaps he entered as I now do into the torturous hollows of poet's purgatory left forever loving (ah see they cannot take that) but always wondering what how when and why forever wanting of the invisible impossible having only the satisfaction of paintings of yesterday's lilypads