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.