—Vincent van Gogh’s final words: 
the sadness lasts forever

Words paint their own demise
as do Whitman’s blades of grass.
Nothing appears built to last
but suffering.

This is Buddhist ideology,
this world of the living,
as we pass from one canvas
to the next

unknowable uncreation
of time into uncertainty
more profound than sky
or clouds.

Rainfall comes and goes,
and trees keep their silent
vigil of passing decades
as the music

of stars fades away.
Van Gogh must have known,
painted joy and pain
as singular

because one is inextricable
from the other, conjoined
twins that share a single
heartbeat.

Dearest, when the lavender
blooms fade, my hands
will reek of beauty
and my breath

soften, and when the sun
desiccates the fields of
my life, I will turn
to you

for one last assurance
that I gave enough, enough
so that you were never starved
for love.

Neurodivergent writer Lana Hechtman Ayers shepherded 150 poetry collections into print as managing editor for three presses. She lives in Oregon on the unceded lands of the Yaqo’n People with her beloved husband and fur babies. On quiet nights she can hear the Pacific ocean whispering to the moon. Visit her at LanaAyers.com