Virginia Through van Gogh
The ruby vineyards stick strongly in spring.
Chrysanthemums, orchids, rosebuds and thyme
Nodding politely in golden whispering winds.
Remembering this lump of sodden contentment –
Where children—run—flinging dirt—and scream for nothing
Like the cardinal hatchlings singing out to the sun.
Where men toil behind the fence with beads of sweat sliding
Like the lake water flows from the duck.
Where crisp, cerulean beams descend from the sky
Like a heavenly blanket upon the weary.
Sycamores grow along the edge and smile
As a young one swings branch to branch.
Their wooden spirits chant and chime in unison,
“Oh, the innocence of babes.”
Nodding politely in golden whispering winds,
Chrysanthemums, orchids, rosebuds and thyme.
The ruby vineyards stick strongly in spring .
A painted brick chimney juts into the sky.
My personal pink steeple, my Mecca.
This forbidden lawn now beckons to me –
You’ve seen this grass in whispered dreams.
A pile of well-worn toys
17 discarded mugs
A shelf of children’s books with cracked, wrinkled spines
In quiet thoughts, you’ve heard this breeze.
Kim’s eyes watch from the porch,
Drooping and aged as wine.
“Anything you like?”
You’ve known it said not once, but twice –
A Polaroid clicks, then hums and whirls.
“I’ll take this camera, this cup –
How much for the castle?”
Obsession is a dangerous vice.