At the Sorolla

Joaquín Sorolla, Mis hijos (1904). Oil on canvas. At the Museo Sorolla in Madrid.

It is one thing
     to study his work
closely, trying
     to hear the music

of his Muse
     who animated
the artist’s use
     of color shaded

and thickly spread
     in joyful strokes
where one can read
     his living speech.
     

It’s another
     thing altogether
to watch my mother
     and grandfather

listening for
     the selfsame Muse
from whom their
     painting took its cues:

the name Sorolla
     ringing in their ears
(or so I gather)
     through the many years

they’d trained the eye
     and hand to trace
the play of light
     across a canvas.

If this is how
     the artist learns
to plant and grow
     the seeds of truth,

then I shall take
     my pen once more
and write, like
     the painters before

I learned their craft,
     to trace where shade
and color soft create 
     the truth of our shared trade.