The edge of time shares admiration.
Poets admired them.
They were painted on canvas by artists.
And to each his own sun.
Everyone has a riot of colors and a moment that has stopped for them.
Flowering among greenery or mature ears.
Standing in pots, lying on windowsills, in hands, in blank verse or prose...
Infinity from solar circles.
Exciting imagination and emotions.
In every joy and light portion.
Each has its own meanings and place to be.
Forcing to live, create and love.
Rays warming and tuning.
Untouched and bent under the weight of the seeds.
Oh, those seeds that are scattered in still lifes.
No one will remember from the flushed muzzles from the frost in the market,
Who cares nothing about the art of admiring flowers.
It is enough for them to spit the shell from the seeds,
And silently praise Baba Shura, who fried them and brought them, generously distributing them to her girlfriends ...
And, by the way, I even threw a handful to the pigeons.
But, that's a completely different story,
Requiring a new canvas and attitude.
It is quite possible that there are some.
In the meantime, there are three of us: Van Gogh, Lyosha Yashkin, well, and me, admiring the fields of wheat and golden petals around sunny, joyful faces that know nothing about us and know no boundaries ...

Canvas. Oil. 70x100
February 2023