Van Gogh stops by
In my garden. Death
feels chilly so he wants
a morning back on Earth.
I told him I admired
his iris paintings.
He thanked me, didn’t remember
painting 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 enough
to see the iris open.
He vanished like pollen.
When this iris blooms,
maybe he’ll be there, rising
through roots, his face
a sunny yellow.
***
