________________________________________________________________________________

Portraits of sunflowers show both the genius and
    sadness of a man who sold only two paintings
and I understand in my own way his solitude, lack of
    emotional connection with others
causing one to delve deeper into that empty fog that
    settles on the mind in these dark hours

hoping to at least find the warmth needed to stay
    alive, in maneuvers devoted to art,
hoping that something inside ourselves can be
    cultivated and prove to ourselves it is worth it
the stress of staying individuals, though still like links
    of a chain, kernels on an ear of corn
it is ironic that people in this life are striving for
    identity, yet it’s so easy to fade from this

all of us on whatever day will meet our fates of falling
    past identities of skin curtains
where eyes hang like buttons on weak thread,
    knowing where we have spent so much time
unaware of where we spend so much more

and those of us who, at the end of the day must walk
    away from crowds
into these cold corners of our mind, setting up
    canvas and mixing up paint
or looking for pens and arranging papers, hoping the
    words come
whether they do or not, there are entire kingdoms of
    wheat fields that will accept us
________________________________________________________________________________

B. Curtis White-Carroll was born in Twin Falls Idaho, lived his poetry in eastern Oregon, now bounces around the better cities of the Northwest, especially Portland, Oregon. His work has been in numerous magazines and websites and his first book by major publisher is in preproduction.