How hot the sun is on those golden fields that parallel the sky’s infinitude reaching back, back, back through time and space— and somewhere in the fields I see his face that blends so well with wheat fields— bright, intense, hair golden-red, eyes burning blue like his own brilliant skies— but then the face fades, and the scene is somewhere I have surely, surely been. How darkly cypress trees can twist and writhe and seem to prophesy some final woe— and somewhere in the trees I see his life haunted and twisted by an inner strife. Yet he could bring an orchard into bloom! His fruit trees blossom in your heart and head until you walk among them in some timeless time . . . and somewhere in the blooms you find his heart that burgeoned bravely to this burning art.
—published in The Christian Science Monitor, date unknown