Poem: Crows In Wheatfield

 

Crows in Wheatfield

 

flecks of pepper

in saffron stipples,

 

summer of dreams

on a tossed straw bed.

 

a scythe could reap, 

writhing like a snake,

 

feverish implement,

stroked to obsess.

 

i hear the labor

vaporing off the canvas,

 

jagged notes, they waver,

ripples troubled,

 

strummed and perturbed 

by ponds of pigment,

overwhelming the lobe.

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8/12/25

10/6/24

My brother Gudger much liked the works of Van Gogh