I think of Van Gogh cutting
off his ear after gnarling
the olive trees in paint, continuing
his disagreement with Monet, arguing
by other means less painful, less
dramatic, less temporal, more
eternal. I have no knife, no brush,
no argument with Monet; only
a match, lit, with which to turn
the prairie’s painted landscape,
its yellowed paper brittleness,
This poem is submitted to the Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets. Hosted today by Brian Miller, the prompt is to select any one of a number of posted photographs by Sue Ann. To see the other photographs (cool stuff) and the poems submitted, please visit dVerse Poets.
Photograph by Sue Ann. Used with permission.