Like van Gogh, I Can’t Begin in Prose

1    Dear Milton, Rain. But when you are here, alone, what does it mean. It means psalm — that song sung to the harp. Like trees, we too hold on to the earth — pull and twang for another tongue.It(whatever it is, and who knows that) is a sacred song.It is strange for we are the ones who glorify mystery with our arms. We call it testament because it pries at our souls with many branches, and so you say with a huge eye, we must practice our art like the third stomach of a cud-chewing animal: “Myrtle, Woodbine, Appletrees, Trillium, here they are, the strength of your arm stalls at the open gate of the stars. Feel everything, trust everything!”