To My Sunflowers

I kept my promise.  
Hidden over winter, hope -
shelled black and closed,
in an envelope.

It was still cold when I conjured 
the natural, the new and oldest beginnings;
I mixed the pink, the orange,
two rows of I don't know -
your most beautiful was a burnished brown.

Some of the seedlings are ten inches high now,
though even the smallest 
are willing themselves closer to the sky.
I compare them to you,
give their roots more room to claw.

I have no patience, only pictures
of pointed suns under the moon
last confetti summer.


LJ Ireton, 2024