by Kieran Borsden

Remember when we were sunflowers,
elevated by spring-time devotion—
ever reaching to the boundless sky?
How we faced the sun, entranced, and followed
as it arced into the night—then waited
for tomorrow to fulfill its promise.
Remember summer afternoons, their warm
and bolstered hues? The buoyant bumble bees,
and chirrup-chatter drifting on the haze.

But after the seasonal light has waned,
and Winter grey sets in, sunflowers fade.
They wilt with their petals curling inward,
and hang their weary heads on weathered stems.

I suppose that makes us sunflowers still.

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