Vincent van Gogh: Painter (1853–1890)

i took my shovel from the shed,
also the wheelbarrow 

and a garden rake;
i loaded bark mulch in full sun thinking of you
sitting on a cabin porch 

overlooking a secluded lake
one could only reach with a slow drive over a rutted road
deep into the back woods of Maine.

it proved to be a long drive for a quiet time with a special book,
but you had nothing to lose 

and everything to gain.

i cleaned nesting houses for the wood ducks and chickadees,
found a fallen feather from the red-tail hawk by the slow-moving creek;
it repeatedly circled low overhead with broad hunter's wings.
the field mice sensed the danger and seemed too afraid to peek.
you asked me about Vincent van Gogh and i mentioned Theo,
as you drove away packed with gear and a GPS device
plugged into an outlet like it had been the previous summer.

you had the driver's window open for a kiss and i gave one to you twice
and i thought about that when i cut the dead evergreen branches,
scattered the mulch and the dried leaves over dry, bare ground.

there was so much work to do to prepare for a healthy garden!

you would soon hear the wild loons make their most enchanting sound.

i sat alone at my evening table while you made a distant vegetable soup
with zucchini and tomatoes and yellow corn and kale.

i read your most recent letter and would happily accept your offer,
but also knew i didn't know how to blue water sail.

i took a look at the online guides about being a Captain and a mate
and made mental notes about the purpose of each special knot
and how wind could be harnessed to propel our boat when it was in perfect trim.

i wrote you a reply in which i simply said "Yes, why not?"
and thought that together we'd get to read about Vincent and his days in Paris,
which were spent largely with his brother in a tidy apartment along a busy side street:

like he, i worked many days and weeks alone and when asked 

would always or usually say i wanted my art to feel more wholesome and complete.

and i waited for you.