Ekphrastically it would be better if I refer
to a famous painting or photograph,
but there’s no picture I’m talking about,
even though I’m talking about pictures.

Every picture tells a story is a dictum
I’m not willing to discuss as it’s a matter of faith.
I imagine as you read or listen, you’re forming
an idea of what I look like, the one talking.

Who am I? I’m sure as I speak, an image will arise.
I ask myself, who is my reader, my listener?
It’s foolish to try to picture one person.
I realize, that’s not the point.

Obviously, you read or listen to poetry
which is in itself somewhat unusual. But,
I’m guessing. Maybe, like most first impressions,
I’m wrong. It’s possible it doesn’t mean a thing.

Now, this next moment is absolutely crucial,
the moment that marks where imagination ends
and hope begins. I hope you listen with an open heart,
a clever mind that prefers delight over distraction.

Someone who likes a lot of colour within their life.
A lot of colour without. You’re attracted to nature.
You like the sound of a stream of water running nearby.
Momentarily parting tree leaves allow a light beam

to fall on the ground ahead of you and that is also delightful.
You enjoy word play. You’ve seen more hurt and misery
and hatred than you’d like. You’d prefer to imagine people
aren’t like that, you’re prepared to hope, this moment.

Now, picture yourself, be sure to include a mirror
to show you’re painting your portrait. You see yourself,
but do you see me as well, standing behind you, there
in the shadow, looking at you from within the mirror?

The question is: do I leap out, or do you leap in? If the former,
this is the story; if the latter, this is the picture.
Both of which began when I asked you to imagine the poet,
the listener, neither of whom exist, other than right now.