I came to the sloping grassy field
To paint with Vincent's words
The wind.

She brushes the back of her hand
Across the edges of the trees,
Then bends and kneels revealing,
Caressing seeded shoots of hairy hay
To make them sway
And laugh and swing.

Soon I have to smile my own new smile
And let my own deaf troubled spirit
Open like the first line of a song
That I had wrong
Until today.
(See how it makes my own eyes sting?)

Some of this year's oak leaves
Are so dark and green and waxy,
I already see them hanging on
In winter, tough and leathery
Long after all the other leaves have fallen,
The lion's share of birds, flown,
And all around the moon a milky ring.

I'd like to fling my dragonfly seed
Toward the setting sun
Under this August,
Watermelon moon,
The day undone,
And birth a secret with this field and woods
That I could whisper to my child
Early next June,
Something good,
To let poor Vincent know
I read his lovely words
And understood.

Goodnight my sleepy little Van Gogh child.
Don't hum your life away,
Sing.

. . .

copyright 2000, Linford Detweiler