Poem: Crows In Wheatfield

 

Crows in Wheatfield

 

flecks of pepper

in saffron stipples,

 

summer dreams

atoss on a straw bed.

 

a scythe could reap through

if it writhed like a snake,

 

feverish implement,

stroked to obsess.

 

i can almot hear the labor

vaporing off the canvas,

 

a jagged song that could

overwhelm my lobe.

 

this scene, it wavers,

a façade troubled,

 

a stung pond

perturbed by pigment

 

trying to ripple 

back home.

================

10/6/24

My brother Gudger much liked the works of Van Gogh