brushfire

waves of white and wheat
subtle tints the lavendar
weaves in mountain,
in more wheat.

vincent, you tidal
ebb and flow of
mercurial man,
sink low your misery.

drown it in this work
of color, washed in wind
with beauty you console
the short lines, rips
and soultears.

with tiny hairs and
so much swirling, you
mask the missteps
of purpose
of everyone else's
expectations.

some too-late corners
envious green at
how you see your world.

the balm of beauty
in nature, in good-natured
love of life and mankind:
a salve to your emptiness
your doubt.

there must be
opposition in all things.
but you, poor, tortured man
that you are and were
and are still in
every stroke of colour,

blaze bright,
the center of self
stoked.
the keen spirit,
depth and sweep
no ember glow. no,

brushfire.

and every wheat field,
cottage, still life
inhaled life and is left

exhaling ash,
sweet, but with a slow burn,
bitter, peppered
on the end of my tongue.