Regarding the Rothko, some give it a cursory glance,

some no glance at all. Others may pause to ponder the tones,

the relationships between them, perhaps the intent of the artist.

Others yet may discourse internally, or with a companion,

with insight or without insight, seriously or superficially.

The painting is on the wall, each sees it in their own way.

The young girl is mesmerized. As her family moves on 

to other paintings, she stands still before it, held by it.

There is something there. She can see it, almost taste it, hear it,

something indefinable which she cannot express. It is real.

It matters. It is significant, elusive—just beyond reach.

The name means nothing to her, it is a work by an unknown artist. 

But even if she cannot reach it, it is hers. Then, a movement,

the tiniest of movements, a nod. She nods, an acknowledgment.