Rembrandt’s Water

by Curtis Speer

 

In Rembrandt’s water, time bends low,

A ripple painted soft with woe.

Not mere reflection, but a dream,

Caught trembling in a candle’s gleam.

 

It holds the hush of shadowed grace,

A mirror turned to heaven’s face.

Light does not fall—it leans, it weeps,

Through amber dark where silence sleeps.

 

This is no water known by rain,

But something born of charcoal pain.

A brush, a breath, a soul laid bare—

The sacred shimmer of despair.

 

Each droplet holds the weight of night,

Yet glows with truth, not merely light.

Rembrandt did not paint a stream—

He gave the water eyes to dream.