Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Previously Published on The Blue Hour . . .



Sensing Sunflowers

Golden-seed children dance on
exaggerated limbs.  Field filled
with followers echoing movements
in wave of would-be smiles.  My mind
wanders with them across the wind.

I.  Seeing Sunflowers

Dark textured mouths, opened in
silent choral prayer and purse
of eminent awe.  These natural blonde
disciples trace path of fire-
god across the sky.  Bizarre,
clockwork ritual testing strength
of stem against Autumn’s breath.

II.  Hearing Sunflowers

Petals chitter, responsive
shudder against sunset, exhale in fabled
attempt to shake souls back
inside.  They echo, gilded
ghosts rattling invisible chains, inviting
footfall.  I answer automatically,
impulsively running, crashing
into their waiting embrace.

III.  Smelling Sunflowers

Subtle hint of seasonal change closes
around me.  Militant rows roar:  We are
different.  No need for overwhelming,
sickly blossomed bursts, ripe
enough to bottle.  Dime-share of diminutive
nut, dash of pollen, the only traces
the air dares to brush free.

IV.  Touching Sunflowers

Strange stalks confuse, tactility . . . unlabelable.  Faux-
fragile façade, difficult to break, pull. Cut
is required to topple these feather-headed harlots.
Harvest heralders, graceful
                                            ly falling, perfected
pictures of death’s bow.

V.  Tasting Sunflowers

Beheaded beads boil, toss in roasting
pan.  Pre-destined for packaging.
Snack for squirrels and dugout bench
warmers.  Split-shell spit, more
work than result, worth every bite
of calm repetitious swallow.




No comments:

Post a Comment

Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

To Spin Or Not To Spin Static transporter taunts me infinitely across a room of mirrors, reminders of necessity.  Cold motivators of perpetu...