after the painting Viennese Domestic Garden
1828-1830, by Erasmus Engert
In the Viennese back garden, a grape arbor
shades her as the roses nod their dumb garish
heads in time to the tune she hums to them
and herself. A book rests heavy, open on her lap,
cradled in the folds of her dress. She reads,
and as she reads she knits with the carelessness
that wealth affords her. A useless tat of decoration
akin to the titter of lace that trims her bonnet.
Beyond the gate exists a house, in which the windows
open. She sighs as the chair’s wooden curves press
along the length of her spine. She can imagine
nothing beyond that which has been given her.
