Sunstruck
I see you are checking whether
Vincent was accurate. My bonnet – this
tangle of tossing bracts – crowns
my glory, my dazzling mane: kissed
by Helios, it coronas the burnt
umber of my face
like a solar eclipse:
wild, untamed.
Yet all Fibonacci saw
was order: Leonardo by name (how apt), he
discovered the magic sequence,
his Golden Ratio – another gilded coincidence? –
in the depths of my face. Fathom
and fancy that! Vincent did and sparked
his Midas touch: first in Paris
(I was Helianthus prostratus there, no fields
en plein air in the 9th arrondissement); then
to Arles,
clumped in a jug, a profuse
jumble of heads tumbling
this way
and that,
a riot of
unsequenced
disorder.
So composed.
Picture
the paradox; I am
Still Life.
Please excuse me if I turn as
you ask your questions: I have
the sun to catch.