An unfinished poem lies in the lines of his palm;
earthy and ambiguous
it frequently invokes the muse which like the river is otherwise brimming,
emerald blue rippling,
indomitable with a hope to induce— there is no denying it,
his essence is that of wheat,
of fields laden with eternity in each turn of the breeze.
The sweet, rich brown
a breathless possibility that he might be “he,” is heavenly.
But oh! Blackness encircles like the arms of a cypress tree,
just as dark days are inevitable, they are necessary—
mournful pebbles pry and I clutch my heart,
he’s the song I sing when everything seems to be falling apart.
Subtly pink, his lips put the sunrise to shame,
he beckons the soul and moves in as silently as a blown kiss;
and I lie here
envisioning him under a different sky during the early hours of night—
at a point where edges are blurred by infinite longing,
I inveigle sleep and sigh; “for wheat is wheat.”
Photo credits: Vincent Van Gogh, Wheat Field with Cypresses
Posted for Poetics: Waiting on Wheat @ dVerse Poets Pub