Into the Book


Vincent van Gogh wrote consistently to his brother Theo about his art. In letter 272, he said, “Yet it’s precisely then that I feel what the work is; how, regardless of approval or disapproval, it gives tone to life, and how on days when one would otherwise feel melancholy one is glad to have a will. ” This poem is not just for the dry moments in writing, but in life.

there is warm rain outside
and yet the air smells of burnt amber
like the smokes of fall that were absent
returned late, burdened,
to welcome the ending time (hours//weeks//months//blinks)
of winter

and the wind whispers,still and small
not in the pines like all the songs say
but in my hair
curling around me
like hazel sounds.

the light falls
and today that is
almost enough.

the concrete is cold, pebbled in the driveway with light rain,
not yet changed,
not yet transformed by the changing pressures
and the rotation of the sun.
the rain dulls color instead of saturating it,
saturating the absence instead
in the waiting
for the earth to loll around
and the sun to rise and warm the planets bones
like the air fortastes and promises.


Published on 9 March, 2016. Last updated on

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