Postcard from Saint-Rémy de Provence

Two hours before dawn.
All is quiet.
Through an open window
the night sky still glitters
with ten thousand distant suns.
And low over the horizon
a crescent moon bathes the valley below
in its ghostly glow.

There are feelings beyond words
which every human heart
has known. And defying all
logic or reason
the inexpressible seeks
expression through a play of notes
or brushstrokes
on canvas
which might serve
as an imperfect reflection
of infinite truth.

The small room reeks
of turpentine and oil paint.
And a stained brush handle
held squarely pauses
midair, poised
to make
the first stroke.