Vincent Van Gogh

rise, writhe, charmed like snakes by the song of the sun.

The wild blue heart of longing moves up, up,

from papery rhizomes, common dirt. Out of nothing,

armfuls of sky. They burn, flames in a hearth, as they dance

above the pale green swords of their leaves. It’s all

or nothing, this loud shout, this wild abundance, a few short

weeks in May. On the canvas, they sing forever. The suffering

world recedes in the background. They lean to the left, pushed

by the wind, but not one stalk is bent or broken. Oh, the fierce

burning joys of this life; all the things of the world, about to vanish.