Three weeks ago, you stood up straight. Your green stalks proud.
Bright yellow thumbs pressed warmth against my skin like sunbeams in October.
Your brown fuzzy core protected by countless petals, you were alive.
Now, your core pours over, facing the Earth. You pout, neck sagging down.
The winds pushed with such force that your warmth was buried
Your stalk is faded, your leaves are crippled, your thumbs are frail and failing. You are dying?
No, sunflower. Your seeds will feed the finches,
Your leaves will nourish the soil, your roots will be replenished
As you live through each waning and waxing,
Your bright beaming mouth of seeds is pulled into a smile by your yellow thumbs, and
Once again you are full.