As storm nears, it lays a film over sky
& landscape—clouds yellow, rooftops
darken, fields lay subtler like antique
patches of baby’s breath/the barest of blue/
a thin pink.  Winds sail over splintered-wood
church & speckled path, heading
for open fields.

Inside cornflower & poppy, spray, sprig, tail of fern,
rest in the glaze of vase whose pleats spin like a merry-
go-round.  

Bedroom leans blue:  pitcher, self-portraits,
absinthe windows, flaxen chairs, floorboards,
coat, towel, tea steam, all but the inhabitant,
absent behind his easel.  

After storm, tree’s mauve flames char sky & curl cloud
edges, even daring to inflame sun into more beams & warm
moon into rosiness.  

And now—how stars spin their frizzy
lemon light into lake paths, through splintered waves,
over trees curved green & heads
leaning into kisses.