Swirling fields of yellow
The paint sticks out from the canvas
An ailing impressionist’s mark
Crows flying out of the field
Into the darkened twilight sky
Heralding the end of us
Tormenting us, yet saving us
From the calamities to come
Three paths extending out
Are they false,
Taunting us with the thought of incompletion?
Or had he finally taken one
And will I do so someday?
Is it despair that crossed his mind
As he bled his remaining life
onto the canvas with his brush?
Or was it his crow song?
A knowing grand finale
to an unrecognized legacy
This painting has brought a thought
Which feels so far in time
Right up to my eyes
Confronting me with fate
But the awe its beauty makes
Holds some anguish at bay
Although a vision of somberness,
It was completed
No error, no mark of abruptness
A work of beauty and preparedness
Of acceptance.
I hope we have been consoled.