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The painting hung from a corner of the wall.
It was unassuming,
simple.
He stopped in the gallery,
and held his Madonna’s hand.
They gazed at the pensive face
of Christ’s Mother;
but, he thought only of her.
He was struck by the coincidence.
His Madonna wore the same gaze,
as she stared at the painting with soulful eyes.
Did she see?
He sensed a sadness in her,
and he felt a tugging irony
at the comparison.
He knew, instinctively,
that she was thinking
of another love.
He wondered whether his new love
would allow him to make of her,
his Blue Madonna.
Would he worship her,
with the reverence of a believer?
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