wilting of petals

I know an artist 

who sees the 

faint line 

between blue and 

gold at the heart of

every iris.  

He laughs at the trace

of silver 

along the curls 

framing his temples

and reminds himself 

of the words he has yet to write.

He cares

about the 

mark of punctuation 

kissing the last 

word at the end

of every sentence

of every page

in a box full of letters,

because he understands 

how he can not prevent 

the wilting of petals 

into the night 

of every month

of every year, 

as he writes the words  

I dare to hope 

will one day 

find their way

into my hands. 

After Irises, Vincent van Gogh