The Sower
Updated: Jan 21

I had traveled leagues
to the rock farmhouse
in Provence its walls
a pale blond stone
as sturdy as implements
peasants used
to subdue this land
I did not see empty fields
as empty nor taste
bitter fruit as sweet
harsh light in the wheat
blinded me as it had Van Gogh
a light good enough
to die in he thought
a light good enough
to die into a light shimmering
with transcendence
a light that lit the beyond
and a crop of sunflowers
waiting to be harvested
light did not touch me
I ate blue off the painter’s canvas
bit through yellow swirls of sun
and savored nothing
but darkness behind them
everlasting silence as Vincent
told Theo silence to swallow
even a painter’s
most urgent dream
unrelenting silence of light