Before the flaxen wall, upon a mustard table,

this maize vase sits. Its lemon lips are 

bursting with yellow sunflowers. 

They drip like honey, twist like ivory, 

peppered with petals as bright as sunbeams. 

These sunflowers appreciate their golden purpose. 

They broadcast their butterscotch fragrance. Through the

 painted oils I smell the colors of its harvest: the floral spice of 

saffron, the sour citrus, and the heady fruit flavors of bananas, 

mangoes, papayas, pineapples, grapefruit, jackfruit, starfruit, 

and cantaloupe. Bronze blossoms surmount this ensemble, 

illuminated by sunshine. They bounce like a bumblebee

 does in a daydream, mellowed by their sepia stigmata.

The lime greens of their gangly frames twist as vines 

do to uphold their royal crowns or to hold them

down, obliged to face the ground in disgrace

or perhaps to realize their flavescent class.

Vincent, as corny as he was or maybe to 

divide the seas of yellow, wrote his 

name in azure upon that maize 

vase of yellow sunflowers.