Champs De Tulipes
Et Moulin En Hollande
I send you this postcard of a painting by Monet
with clouds and sky and flowered fields in balance.
Someone lives here in a cottage tending tulips;
when the wind blows, he holds to soil for balance.
What you wrote was clinical: prognosis, dosages,
side-effects, keeping your meds in a sort of balance.
I bought this card and sit here, lost in the scene
as if a painted windmill counts for counterbalance.
50/50 the odds for no recurrence, with God’s grace
thrown in the measure – as we say, the balance.
What message could fill the space on the other side?
Your mail address, stamped by the postal balance.
Scales and hypodermics, clinic gowns. Blood count
a little low; touch ‘n go for keeping fear in balance.
I’ve thought of windmill blades as turning sky.
I see now, they’re for weighing odds, for balance.
What can I write but "best wishes" on the flat back
of this mill, vanes poised in heaven’s balance?