Wolf Call to Vincent
Times when the poetry flows and I drift along not aimlessly,
but naturally,
-- a part of everything around me
times when my stubbornness keeps me out of tune
and I cannot hear the harps softly plucking in the air,
cause myself is the care.
Times when the healing rains become torrents of icy cold sleet,
when I'm alone against the world,
and I listen for the wolf to call and
scream obscenities in my head times when alone is alone.
Vincent must have heard the cry--
perhaps when starry night was born--and
felt the healings rains when Sunflowers was born-
We're alike he and I, a part of, yet not a part of-
when sounds echo,
colors kaleidoscope on merry-go- rounds of life.
bentfeather
Copyright (c) 1984
