I recall how Van Gogh delighted in sunflowers,
like the ones clustering this field.
Gawky. Ungainly,
faces tipped in one direction, like cows.
No one loved them like Van Gogh
whom my friend dismisses as:
a drunkard and a womanizer.
But Van Gogh painted them in rainbows of yellow –
cream to lemon to gold to saffron to ochre,
capturing each nuance of shade
as they budded, bloomed, wilted, and died.
A madman, some said. Poisoned, some said.
His world tinted yellow
through ingestion of arsenic in his paint.
Oh, but look how he found beauty
in the awkward sunflower,
and in frantic, pirouetting stars.
