I’m still not done
with sunflowers
as their dried
and heavy heads find
new ways
to captivate me.
At night my dreams
are filled
with fields upon fields
of desiccated stalks
baking beneath
an indifferent sun.
By day their brown
and gray forms gawk
as I pass
and move as one,
rustled by the cold
Mistral’s blow.
Their hushed remains
lean in close and murmur
age-old memories,
a sea
of weathered faces
earnest and true.
So I wait by the road
and listen
as the season slowly
turns — wondering
if you can hear
them, too.
