Michael Mintrom
The Sunflowers (Vincent Van Gogh, Summer, 1888)
I. Before
Zigzagging between fields in sunlight and heat,
sharp aromas — citrus and sweat.
Midday, twirling and toiling,
I won’t tell of towers reaching heaven
but of people on farms, in villages,
known faces — family, friends
hearing voices and prayers inside
flowers, between grasses.
Breath, body, hunger and thirst,
but for what? Not food, not drink:
Searching for a messenger —
dirt roads, tired limbs, dusty boots.
Dogged, held back by fear, yet at the edge,
grasping for another way of seeing.
II. After
Hard remembering those early years,
songs drifting through cafes and rooms,
as if still life could hold summer days,
warmth, sunlight — seed clusters opening,
gold leaves, great crowns —
vase too small for sunflowers.
Among crops, lovers in fields
expect a fine harvest.
Held here in museums: brushstrokes,
smears, struggle, pain.
Could anything quench that thirst?