On Van Gogh's Wheatfields Under Clouds
Clearly, it's all coming apart--
the thundercloud a slash of paint,
the deluge of deep conflicting blues,
the fields ripening an unearthly green.
There are no dreams left to dream--
the clump of poppies seems an afterthought,
and the manic yellow zig-zag line,
indicating corn or country lane,
suggests the final act is indeed upon us--
and that no one, not even the hint of rider
or the ghost of horse, will now escape.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved