Sunflowers

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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 blossoms 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?

  1. Yes, thank you, that would be fine.”
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Robert Hubbard

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