Her lowered head and eyes,
the side of her body
and yellow jacket
bright with the sun, her blue
apron brilliant as the
glittering chunks of bread
dabbed with dots of white paint,
the milk jug’s generous
mouth the wide open heart
of her calm discipline,
careful, controlled, barely
tipped – and the trickling sound
maybe the only noise
in the room other than
her bunched clothes, her breathing.
There is no moral here,
she is no example
of virtue or labor,
she is not standing in a
genre scene surrounded
by symbols. Her downward
eyes are the only scene,
her unforgettable
forehead and cap and the
way she cups the pitcher
and pours milk without end.
There isn’t an angel
on Michelangelo’s
ceiling, not a prophet,
whose body is so bold
and full and physical,
her face built from the dabs
of a dozen colors
just as the table laid
with radiant bread and
a light dappled basket,
jug and earthenware bowl
could only be achieved
through the slow layering,
thin and thick, of orange, brown,
white, and lead-tin yellow.
Of course, the steadiness
of Vermeer’s eyes and hands
are only the Milkmaid’s
sympathy for her work,
only the equal to
her own full absorption.
So long as the living
were this vivid, so long
as life itself could be
captured with a table,
a window, a woman,
and the play of color
and light over them all,
there’s no lesson to teach.
Buy Time and the River here or Read more about the book
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