Van Gogh’s sunflowers —
all twelve of them —
so lively, lush,
standing, bending;
they do not submit
to ikebana’s poise
and posture —
golden — no — bronze —
beautiful yet strange.
I am certain
this is the color
of grief thick as impasto,
of desire leaping
like a gazelle,
beyond the canvas’s frame —
wedged in the folds
of saffron —
of smiles and laughter.
Outside, the rain
has ceased.
The sky,
topaz.
The soil ready
for sowing.
I clap my laptop shut,
murmur:
Art is—
Life is—
