Graceful groves of willow in full leaf—
Sheaves of golden grass erasing grief—
Still I would give it up, he said, for one painting sold before noon. One painting sold and I could buy bread and cheese and find a doctor for this damned earache. I’d release the sunflowers and the stars for just that bread please, and cheese. And soup.
He lay in bed and thought of it while the sunflowers nodded their heads in agreement. They pitched in some spare coin and the stars ordered carryout for everyone.
The soup was delicious.