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