The water’s one shade of turquoise.
Bits of canvas show
between heavy greens onshore
as if the hand that held the brush
tried not to belabor.
The painting hangs
above a fold-out changing table
in a small rest room
just down the hall
from the jewel box chapel
in an old stone church.
Could be the artist belonged here
and her scattered, middle-aged offspring
didn’t much want
this particular effort.