I Should Tend to the Campfire

 but I have Monet's madness
haystack fever
captivated by evening's descent
every breath brings a new color pattern
a fresh gold
an aging chartreuse deepening into lit periwinkle
a thin shaving of the light

in electric cursive a lonely lightening bug
pirouettes in his sporadic penmanship
writes an incandescent poem
o'er darkening forest palette
about every five seconds or so

so let the fire die
I cannot be bothered
I have the last of the world's color to worship.

TA