Anna’s Words Timothy Resau

Anna’s Words

Her love-photos pressed anonymously in small gilt frames... her unhoused paintings like Maxfield Parrish’s still brush, or the stark, white canvas, too naked. Her artistic hands left grasping leaves from last year’s garden— Anna sighs … whispers … waits. Anna’s storybook window is seen from the street, but there from within, where carnivals are held on amaranthine days, beneath Tiffany fixtures, pink rooms— flute … harp music … laughter … she lives her secrets, then pointedly rests her hands in place and begins again.

Tim Resau

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