Van Gogh stops byIn my garden. Deathfeels chilly so he wantsa morning back on Earth.
I told him I admiredhis iris paintings.He thanked me, didn’t rememberpainting them.Death boiled off the past.The pain went—but so did the joy.Forever was about making do.
I hoped he’d stay long enoughto see the iris open.He vanished like pollen.
When this iris blooms,maybe he’ll be there, risingthrough roots, his facea sunny yellow.
***
