Van Gogh’s Seasons

Winter black is my palette.
Shadow on snow.
A woman abandoned by her lover.
Ink on paper.
I hunger for color
as if for bread.
The woman I drew in from the cold
poses. I sketch.
Ink on paper.
Winter, I blow on my hands,
coaxing fire.

Spring draws out the interior:
Still life and open windows,
green young corn
and pink apple blossoms.
When a model poses,
my only question
is whether I should start
from the soul
or from the clothes.
Spring is an artist’s brush,
agile and light.
From each bud and leaf
colors brighten.

Autumn is completeness,
round fruit,
ten apples in a basket.
Colors ripen,
yellow leaves and violet tones,
while two laborers rest,
knees touching,
by a haystack.
I desired to be a whole,
not one of two halves.
I paint now
without a brush.
Palms, fingers, knuckles
apply the paint
to canvas.
Autumn, I am nothing
except a boyish signature
on a canvas.

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