The quiet that descended at last
had been hanging in the sky all day
in anonymous, soft cotton grays
gentle as a dusk preparing us for sleep.
The breeze calmed
and the limbs of trees grew still,
even the crows that daily berate us
were quiet – small stark silhouettes.
Sometimes, I just want to look at
light on water, light on leaves, light on
the edge of stones or sand
with no capturing, no synthesis, no inspiring
just love of gold, carnelian, emerald, azure
like van Gogh eating pigment
because he couldn’t help himself
even for the poison of its consumption
who wouldn’t choose annihilation in love
who wouldn’t burn under a calm sky
the conflagration lifting the trees
with the wind of an ecstatic moment
the crows taking flight
the unquiet ascending.