Sunflowers

Work and my season now
done, I seek for the power
of deep wine with bread.
A light touch of breeze and
sun bless my head,
hatless, this hour
by the sunflower
garden.

The tall plants are placed here as
‘decor’ meant to lift spirits
but I sense they are something more.
Each one reminds of
an old woman bending,
her faded hair of former yellow petal,
drooping in curls
at summer’s ending.

This one near, and her companions,
seem
bedraggled, former girls
whom even the bees have left,
finding no further sustenance at breast.

As I now do,
the giant blossums rest.
Sun angles late and
of their burden seed,
these vessels become
soon bereft.

In the proper time,
all earnest labour reappears,
and freshened blooms toil,
upward from the thousand pin-striped,
ripened tears
that found rich autumn’s
ready soil.

This will happen
again,
and again,
until some brash awakening
changes the pattern’s
shape,
improves upon an old design.

In the meanwhile,
to a uniformed waiter
who offers salvation’s quiet smile,
I sigh, “A cuppa coffee?
Yes, thank you, that would be fine.”

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