Taking a risk here and posting a follow-up to my last post, in poetry form…
After The Scream
with its enduring wail
where answers to every question sound the same
and make people step back, clap
hands over ears
(and you didn’t really mean to scream just whisper
this stings, this solitude, it stings)
comes the next series hung.
Van Gogh now
with orchards in bloom
tree after tree
as the snow slips away.
He, working in the sharp glint of sun
Between fierce intervals of wind.
The whole show
could be blown to the ground, he says
but he hunches, pegs down
to catch the way light
breaks off blossoms