after Van Gogh’s Rain

Neither lucernes nor sunflowers in Gogh’s Rain,
              only petrichor’s call unsheathing the leaves—
                          wheat fields bent in full genuflection,
                                       forging a new religion from the empyrean.

She hails from the floodgates, feather-light,
              falling with the feral grace of a harbinger.
                          Have you seen anything greater than this—
                                       a force fluent in the heft of her power?

See how the sky yawns in adulation,
             thunder throbbing in heaven’s throat,
                          & crows cowering at the rain’s refrain,
                                       racing toward Earth like bullets to bodies,

pattering like pigment on a painter’s palette.
             Gogh’s easel, too, was an ark; each brushstroke,
                         another rescued beast, each brushstroke—
                                       another oleander mistaken for an olive.

& in the beginning was God grieving His creation:
             sons of Adam raising alabaster altars to themselves—
                          bronze gods garmented with God’s stolen glory,
                                        until His wrath unlatched the world’s first deluge.

& there was rain, & there was ruin—
               a tumult of human hands knuckling Noah’s ark,
                         & Noah asking God: Will your mercy marinate
                                       these hands hemorrhaging beyond my ark?

& the earth drank deep like Gogh’s fields  
           drunk on heaven’s white wine—
                         grasses gurgling gospel,
                                       paintbrushes bleeding blue belief.

Neither sunflowers nor lucernes in Gogh’s Rain,
            but heaven unbuttoning her silver seeds again—
                        wheat fields fenestrated by the first flood,
                                       the sodden gospel of a world reborn drowned.