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 Godís grace
thrown in the measure Ė 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 Ďn go for keeping fear in balance.

Iíve thought of windmill blades as turning sky.
I see now, theyíre for weighing odds, for balance.

What can I write but "best wishes" on the flat back
of this mill, vanes poised in heavenís balance?