By Jason Zapata

I was the one to find you.
You were in the very field you painted.
The wind sighed. The wheat swayed.
You lay still.

I looked up into the blue sky.
Was your angelic trumpeter here,
Had the dark winged heralds come?
My eyes saw neither of these.

Your conscience led you to the field,
You were never a burden. I failed you.
I gazed over your completed canvas,
Reminded of the melancholy you felt.

I recall your hand spreading dark paint.
Brown, blue, and black were worked
Resignedly into your canvas.
As it became clear what it was, I asked you:

“What does this mean to you?”

Blue eyes regarded me in silence.
“Vast fields of wheat beneath troubled skies.”
It was then you turned your head so I couldn’t see
The wound and the change in your blue eyes.