Impressions
"And yet I see a light in the distance so clearly;
if that light disappears now and then,
it is generally my own fault."
~Vincent Van Gogh
I read the words of Van Gogh
and the words read me.
From my vantage point,
fragile Cirrus clouds
like bone china, streak
the powdered blue firmament;
their strands suspending the
softest billows like picture
frames hung on a wall.
Spring is springing,
all around
and where I have been
waiting for words to fall,
there are none.
The leaves on my trees
are falling;
this the absurdity I
essay to make sense of;
putting thoughts to words
in hopes I might part
the very clouds
which have obscured
me from them;
words which sporadically
leak in prisms their Ebenezer-like
visitors
I am in want of a poem
where my words will form
some Migratory V
and soar the skies in search to see
where none return as though in vain
tracing rainbows through the rain.
These words I look for,
but they will not take flight.
...
Early this morning
a salt and pepper squirrel
scampers back and forth
along the arms and under
the sprawling umbrella of my
White Oak tree.
He's in a twitching frenzy
for Sunflower seeds
scattered along the fence;
as if somehow I thought him
unable to forage for himself.
My very colossal and
olde love of a dog
makes a valiant effort
for the warm blooded prize,
but with eyes
now resembling more
the clouds he used to chase,
falls short this night.
Reaching down to scratch
behind elongated tufted ears
I validate his efforts
and he presses into my thighs,
returning the gesture
with a humble wag of his tail.
An ineffable beryl yellow butterfly
flits about his head
but he pays no notice.
...
The hours have whiled
this day from morning
to dusk like a high speed camera.
From the pulse that is my home,
Cornish Hens have satisfied,
allowing bits and scraps
enough extra for two dogs
who lap up clean their bowls.
I've stepped out onto
our back deck and
into the breeze of the evening
with my noble foot warmer
and truer half of
'Till death do us part.'
He settles into the familiar
fluff of cotton ticking blankets
I've piled for him
where he's curled in the corner
by the birch stacks
licking away the aches and rattles
from his bones.
I'm hoping for a little while longer
with my furry companion,
not taking for granted the days;
believing soon
he will be chasing rainbows
instead of clouds.
I know full well when he
decides to leave us
he will have taken with him
a very large season of
what was our life together;
and for a moment
my breath.
...
An awesome spectacle
is overhead tonight.
The Westward sky
is boasting a painterly
crescendo of colors
in palette knife strokes
of Turquoise.
The ethereal Beryl yellow
of earlier, is V'd into
an impasto thick
Blood-red orange;
bearing the footprints
of a master
impressionist's
marks
...
I am warmed this moment,
under the canopy of its colors;
which has generously
wrapped within its splendor
a poetic offering to me all its own;
one for which I had
been eluded earlier.
A heavy curtain of clouds
has parted, making way
the stage for a setting sun
to take his final bow.
I stop on cue and follow the star
paying homage and knowing,
at least for the moment;
it is not
a want for words
I am after,
but silence from them;
standing beneath the one
before whom
all my questions
seem to fall
away.
photo credit: becky e
location: austin, texas
date: april 2015