It's Writer-ing Day!

Yippee! And no snowstorm better get in the way again.

March 5--Peter Paul Rubens, Posthumous Portrait of Isabella d'Este, Marchioness of Mantua. Too soon, he thought as he sat gazing at her portrait, she died too soon. As he stared, the painted flesh grew rounded and the bosoms rose and fell with each breath. His hands ached to glide over her rosy cheeks and linger at her lips, now closed forever, but open and laughing in life. He yearned to be the string of pearls that hung from her plump shoulders and draped ever so lightly over her lush breasts, breasts that had winked at him and welcomed him into their embrace. The rich red velvet of the gown that slid so fetchingly off her shoulders reminded him that his reason to keep his estates profitable had been to provide her with only the best. Her right hand lay casually in a nest of fur made from a pelt he had shot for her. All for her. His whole long life had been for her. He could not believe she was gone after their full life together. No one had argued when he had asked the Dutch painter to make his Isabella look as she had the day he met her. They all knew that his love for her had never changed her in his eyes. The next morning his valet found him slumped in the chair across from her portrait, his hand outstretched as if to take hers as his spirit rose to rejoin her.

Aw, isn't that romantic? I like it. See you later.
--Barbara