Michele Root-Bernstein

Turner in His Studio

Imagine his effort to be present, the years he spent training hand and eye to the qualia. How many times and with what determination did he tear himself from warm beds, grab his sketchbook and his pocket paintbox and make his way towards day? With what doggedness did he tie himself to the mast of a steamboat heading into storm, closing the distance between sea and psyche? With what devotion did he climb the steep stairs to his rooftop aerie to face the horizon again and again, lonely as a shadow for illumination?

bird on the wind
a brushstroke
feathers the light