A sunny afternoon; think of Vermeer.

Here is the apple, here the rounding side

of the blue pitcher. On the scrubbed wood just here,

she puts the pitcher down, so that the slide

of drops against its lip catches what light

there is for pitchers here this afternoon.

She does not really see the drops, or quite

attend the blue. A common thing. But soon

the tide will turn, and salty smells will rise

to circle in the street, and to her ears

will come the voices. Then doorways to her eyes,

then other days than this—afternoons, years.

She will stop to hold this moment near,

and drop the pitcher, and betray Vermeer.

From Eve