(to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young with love forever...)
van gogh in the pineapple winds of Heaven
I saw painting a new yellow house
fronting the stars.
he was there on the planet of lavender
its fragrance was in waves like a sea.
little stars burst in the air like milkweed
their small parachutes beloved by dolls
and I recalled
that summer we took lessons in art
at the Art Museum and watched a film on the Monarch Butterfly
and learned to identify so tenderly
the milky quartz
while my grandfather painted pines.
or painted gourds using the burnt sienna quite freely.
while Grandmother played Liebestraum and he perhaps was dreaming
of an old hammock strung between two trees in the back yard
the fresh mint in the iced tea picked from his own garden
when life got harder for him later
and no one ever told me.
mary angela douglas 25 april 2020
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