Van Gogh’s Sunflowers — Herbert Woodward Martin

You felt death roaming among fabled leaves,
among yellow flowers that broke
the flight of your assured breath;
a bee heavy with pollen attached to its rear
tumbling under its weight,
a burden too heavy to be borne.
For bee, bird, man, flying as a seed
means descent is the only way down.
There is nothing in this world
beyond the shotgun positioned
carefully in your mouth.