Yesterday, Sean and I went to the MFA in Boston. I love art museums, (though I can distinctly remember being bored to tears by them as a kid) and I could have spent much, much longer exploring the maze of galleries and exhibitions.
I loved the Megacities Asia exhibition and the gallery of Chinese furniture and the model ships and the very peaceful Buddha in the temple.
We also took a tour of the Americas wing and there paid a visit to some of the paintings of Winslow Homer. It was impossible, today, not to think of his paintings as we brought Islander down the Penobscot from Winterport in a drenching rain and pea soup fog.
As we ran out with the tide, sliding through water still but for the constant bulletholing of raindrops, soaking slowly in the heavy, warm rain, Dad described the grey landscape of fog and water and sky almost the way I have been known to describe the snow and sky and mountains: it’s a thousand shades of gray, dissolving sound and land and the boundaries between this world, the next, the sky and the sea.
It’s beautiful out there, even on days when the horizon breaks down and water soaks into the sky.
A counterpoem from last week: Sleeping Inside
Tonight I slept
on the couch under the front window
and the rain blew in
I had taken my hammock in
Not wanting it to shred in the forecast winds
Not wanting to sleep light in dark rain
I woke up in the lightning night
With the rain soft and cool on my face, so glad
that the sky came to find me