Crows

There are crows in the wheat field Vincent.
There are black misshapen bodies above the waves of golden grain.
The dirt path is littered by weeds along the way.
Manic marks of madness thread their winding walk through nature.
The grain is leaning heavy in the husk, away from a sky of cobalt blue.
Dark wings blot out heaven with shadows as they pass.
Who will remember now? Will Theo even come to be here at the last?
What did we do to deserve this; that you bring us here?
Did we let your starry sky pass us by like sunflowers on a summer night?
Your eyes can see right through the paint and pain.
The clouds all swirl; ballerina girls in a dance of awkward shame.
Not the maids of Degas but the craft of culminating chaos.
The cool steel of the pistol feels leaden in your hand.
I am another traveler through this distant nowhere land.
The world grows up around us as we reach to capture time
from the palette to the canvas or from the quill to the written lines.
The ladies come and go. They gaze with lust at drawings by Leonardo.
I heard them talking of you and how they pity what they do not know.
Reluctantly they admit there is finesse in such genius.
They do not see. The field is full of crows.