Sunflowers at Sunset
(Sonnet for Vincent)

I've wondered if he saw the fields in Spain
with massive blocks of sunflowers, heads upturned,
more than enough to paint away his pain
past thirty-seven's gate.  Was Vincent burned
like raw sienna at a tender age
by something in his early learning years?
Perhaps it was a red mark on a page
that filled him with so many, many fears.
Do you suppose he listened to his peers?
Which paintings shall we never get to view,
like gems still buried that were never mined?
How often death cuts short the grand careers
of artists in their prime.  It may be true:
his best works were unpainted; never signed.