Dark dark blue, his sky is a little light for the teacher's taste. Her skies loom blacker than the gloom that pours out of her mouth and onto all the children's drawings. She holds her tongue and steps to the next child whose name we will never know. On the next walk-by, she holds up Vincent's paper, points to the big bright yellow ball, and explains to everyone how the orange crescent inside ruins it. The tone in her voice wilts sunflowers as she inspires Little Vincent to smear clouds all over his starry night with the black crayon.
Winter is here.
Gray cap, foggy scarf, White boots. Trees dream About waves Crashing wildly Upon cosmic beaches. Trees dream about Amethyst towers And golden thresholds. Sap sleeps Under silent frost.