Vincent, come and tell me what to say.

I am afraid.

The beauty startled me

so I came back to capture it.

Bring your brush-sickle

and lop off that bale like an ear.

Forgive me for projecting on you.

It’s not words, but my words

that lie like straw gleanings

through the stubble.

I thought of you first

to show me how stroke texture

and vibrancy with syllables.

You were self inflicted,

but your brush with faith

incited you to a beauty beyond

and you welcomed me

to whisper by your left lobe

“I see it too.”

Oil my word economy

and layer it in gobs

as age and color magnify.

Image taken from my iPhone.

This is a print of Vincent’s