“Come on,” I say, “come on,
this is your only chance.”
Every day for a month
I have walked into the garden
to speak to the sunflowers.
I try not to sound too urgent.
I don’t want to scare them,
but it is September and they
are still tall green stalks
with small tight buds.
“Come on,” I say. “There is still
warmth enough for you to bloom.
It’s what you are here to do.”
Just yesterday there was an inch
of hail on the divide. Every day,
it seems less likely that there will
be sunflowers this year. I notice
how much I want them to bloom,
how they have become more to me
than sunflowers in the garden.
What is it in us that wants
to see things flourish, especially
seeds sown by our own hands?
The sunflowers will bloom or they
will not. The moment I relax into this—
saying yes to the world just as it is—
inside me, I feel acres and acres
of golden heads all nodding.