I sit in the museum Visiting with my friend, Auguste Renoir. ``Your friend, Renoir?'' you say. I note your raised eyebrows And amused smile. ``Surely he died long before your birth!'' ``My friend,'' I reaffirm. For what is friendship But the attraction of minds With like thoughts and ideas. Does friendship need A vocal interchange? Through Renoir's brushstrokes I share slices of his life. I sense his love of color And admire his ability To dapple light across a canvas. He inspires the poet in me To play with color and light In my words. His happy temperament is Mirrored in his models; Bringing to his paintings A serenity That warms his viewers. Certainly, in this friendship I take more than I give. With each visit I see the beauty of another line And note a bit of color That had heretofore Escaped my eye. It makes me feel That Renoir, too, Desires to keep our friendship alive.

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