Hurried steps in Amsterdam,
off to the station,
a train already scheduled.
On Museumplein, Van Gogh’s place
rose like a sun,
but I had no minutes to spare.
A brochure folded into my pocket,
Vincent absent from the walls,
his colors scattered elsewhere.
I found him in the tulip fields,
brushstrokes rooted in soil,
petals burning with his hand.
And still the station called—
its clock face stern,
its whistle the frame I never escaped.
.