The Sower

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