Tiny Sun, Large Flower

By Jeanine Stevens


So we live on a fireball, ride a molten orb,

children of citrus rind, sunflower.


I read the earth’s core, 11,000 degrees F.

same temperature as the sun’s surface.


Then in Arles, otherworldly,

even the vicious mistral

born of two competing winds

cannot interfere

with light making whites alabaster,

blues peacock, yellows mustard.

Not one depressing shade or gloomy hue.


There is a town that never receives sun.

How can people be normal: no solstice,

night music, night madness?


No wonder Vincent dipped his brush so deep,

internal fire, eternal fire.


Even fish glimmer celadon, escargot shine pearl,

and peonies burn ruby on hillsides.




Jeanine Stevens is the author of Inheritor (Future Cycle Press), and Sailing on Milkweed (Cherry Grove Collections). Winner of the MacGuffin Poet Hunt (selected by Phil Levine), The Stockton Arts Commission Award, The Ekphrasis Prize and WOMR Cape Cod Community Radio National Poetry Award. Brief Immensity, recently won the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Award. Poems have appeared in The Curator, Evansville Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Forge, Pearl, Stoneboat, Connecticut River Review, Provincetown Magazine and Rosebud. Jeanine recently received her sixth Pushcart Nomination. She studied poetry at U.C. Davis and California State University, Sacramento.

Comments are closed.