Avenue of Plane Trees

Things are growing strange these days,

like Van Gogh’s yellow trees. Oh, do not

be surprised by these yellow immensities,

how out of proportion things in the picture

seem. What you see in a way makes sense:

the enormous, barren trees eclipsing

the unimportant buildings at Arles station,

the people all small, shadow-like, cast

to the side. Perhaps Van Gogh should have

left us out entirely, but then who would

be left to blame for the strange blurring

of the seasons in the forefront, the way

summer bleeds into autumn, the forests

burning deep into the winter, those winters

where the snow piled so high, we were all

nearly buried alive. Soon we’ll vanish,

and no picture will even exist—unless,

unless someone will answer (who will dare

to answer), where in the world is spring?