The Poets Garden (late '99)

In the park...
	The mighty, warm blue pine, father,
	Reaches out, authoritative and loving,
	Embraces you and me, who emerge 
hand in hand in His shadow,
As we dwell in the strength of
The venerable Tree.

On the canvas...
	... is life...
	One half all richly colored vegetation,
	The other mainly sandy walk.

In my heart...
	The ear just had to go, I see that now
	Attacking friends in fury, by mutilating self.
	This piece I write for You, Van Gogh.
	I speak of You to You, with love...

"What lives in art and is eternally living, is first of all the painter, and then the painting"
	Well put, good Vincent, I'm sorry though.
	Eternal living's not something I want.

   Forever I shall live -- Forever ends.
But Vince, alone shall be the Tree
	When death hits

	me.