Extract

Extract from a poem

The leaves quiver an elderly hand,
so slight I need to adjust my eyes.
Rustle of breeze like a prom dress
being tucked into a car,
hum of tractor far away
as Mom's hoover at the foot of the stairs.

I saw a picture of sunflowers once,
a swirl of sky so angry you knew it cared.
There is just this, warm, light.
With my eyes half-shut
I have learnt to be my own Van Gogh.