© Margaret Wesseling
What he knew from the beginning
was that the sun existed
and without the sun, nothing else.
Things could get confused in a storm:
clouds walking down the fields,
ditch mud backed up through turf.
He drew the forms light shows you:
a naked woman—a candlestick.
Then he saw he needed more.
He needed light's hand, needed color's
touch. He walked south. But the
sunflower fists turned green after all
with envy. He died
unable to paint the hand that drew him.