The Cruelest Month

I look out my window light rising sun 
leafless branches late December.
I look at my bedroom wall 
shadows before before.
I look outside window
sunlight nearly blinding.
I see an old man walking serpentinata 
the path winding between wide patches of lawn 
buildings looming where I live.
I imagine myself that man;
I imagine myself my father;
I have thirty-seven years to reach his age,
thirty seven years ago I was–
I won’t say, out of vanity what I was.
I see instantly what I had only suspected was convention in painting.
I see Van Gogh crows
sky seagulls not crows
silhouettes I mind
window sky above bird
not plane just bird.
I look see want to touch
reach out sky clouds bird silhouette
shifting colors of dawn
seasons today moving
perpetually they do.
Morning sky texture
rich full health
another bird just a bird
not a plane
in the sky silhouette.
I remember the last canvas Van Gogh had painted.
I read how he shot himslef not soon after he stopped.
The fields of Arles drenched by sun.
Crows, crows, all crows cawing loudly.
Something November about that canvas.
There was something not summer
neither spring
something almost cruel
November is the cruellest month,
much, much crueller than April,
regardless of whatever  however Eliot says.
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