Sunflowers and rust

1.

we walk by the distorted field,

not yellow, not brown, but orange.

we remark sadly:

here grew sunflowers.

can’t they grow, in this sludge?

or is it, that no pollen passes,

on the wings of the burnt bees.

the stalks shrivle to the touch,

there is almost a sigh,

a cry.

the field mourns the yellows.

chalk and tar, cake my boots,

i caution you, friend,

watch your step.

2.

there was an artist, long ago.

who sought no fame , nor fortune.

every day went he to the field,

and sketched:those sunflowers.

he explained once that the theme,

may seem the same.

but everyday, he sees changes,

here petals grow,

there a magpie steals.

and through this change he sees in himself the sturdy granite,

which lives forever.

there was another artist.

daily he took the knife,

and cut and burned.

he then took his easel,

and the canvas,

and daily set about drawing,

his scars he drew,

against the yellow backdrop

of the sunflowers.

he explained, that the scars and blood are daily changing,

slowly spiraling down

while the sunflowers remain constant.

there was a third man,

he could nor draw, or sing or write.

he held a match box in his hand,

there were no explanations given.

3.

the ersatz sunflowers in a vase,

will dust , long before it wilts,

i hold on to the last of the seeds,

spiced in sickly annis, and sweet.

i wish the differences in expectation,

would be more manageable.

4.

Socratese drank the hemlock,

he loved the truth,

and did not see the lies.

my grandfather took my bishop,

i could not reposte,

the queen was lost, next.

I won once only, when his mind was gone.

There will be no mention of the dutchman,

who drew sunflowers, I do not care.

if the sunflowers knew of chess,

and truth and self mutilation,

would they see their oriantation a joke?

or will they just shrugg ,

and let the eaons pass?