I’ll always remain
half crazy. Van Gogh
He worries about my vision,
delves into causes and cures.
I, myself, remain complacent.
So what if I watch the wind undulate,
furl as it sweeps cedar tops?
So what if cedars entwine
like braided candles, glow deepest teal.
Or if the very stars, whorl and gyre,
iridescent as Roman candles,
and fiery chrysanthemums bloom
in the sky?
