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Posts Tagged ‘sunflower’

standing in the garden
I gaze into the first sunflower—
mirror with a golden frame

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I hold a sunflower in my heart,
not in golden bloom, but filled
with small, dry seeds,
a desiccated husk of a disk, brittle
and brown. I hold it here
as a reminder some gifts
look unwanted at first.
I remember the autumn afternoon
I went to pull the dead remains
from the garden, then watched
as the Stellar’s jays landed
atop the tall dark stalks
and feasted. So I let the row
stand instead of clearing it away.
In my attempts to remove
what seemed no longer useful,
I almost missed this chance
to see the Stellar’s Jays balance
on the tips of the plants,
their bodies a blue exultation of wing.
What else have I tried to clear
from my heart too soon? How
easy to miss what is still nourishing.
Out my window, the jays gather
at the banquet of what is dead.
I am learning the wisdom of holding.
 

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One Ongoing Dance

in a field of dried weeds
you the golden sunflower
I the bee

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Amidst the sunflowers
in full flagrant flowering,
I, too, begin to sprout
fat orange petals
and feel my head heavy
with growing seeds.
My mind becomes sun-drunk
and I gold and I spiral.
This is why you might see me
standing still in the garden
amongst the thick stalks,
though there is much to do.
Some animals freeze
as an instinct to survive,
and that may be true of me, too,
but I am not still out of fear.
Stillness saves me
not because I hide,
but because peace
seems to find me more
easily then and the body
unclenches and becomes
a blooming thing that lives
for the sake of blooming
right here where it’s planted.

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More Sunflowers

The sunflowers, which came from seeds
no hand planted, now overshadow
 
the tomatoes, the eggplant,
the gardener, the beans.
 
They branch out across the pathways
and teem with bees and wasps.
 
Perhaps your heart, too,
knows something of exuberance,
 
knows what it’s like to burst
into an explosion of golden joy,
 
not just savoring the moment,
but growing more wildly into it,
 
reaching in all directions,
certain of its own beauty
 
and living to share it.

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Sacred Field

In the mural, the field of sunflowers
is always in bloom, always golden,
always opening to face the world.
How could I, tonight, not remember
another evening two summers ago
when the light was honeyed
and I stood in this very spot with my son,
two daughters and husband,
and we smiled wide as sunflowers,
our stems tall, the petals of my heart
unfurling. The image still sits in a frame
on my shelf—the last photo I have
of my son. Tonight, when I stood before
all that blooming, I broke. God, it hurt,
but I did not resist the breaking.
I stood in the middle of all that beauty,
the beauty as real as the pain,
the pain as real as any beauty,
stood in the middle of all those flowers
and cried, I cried and broke and
felt myself opening, unfolding like a flower,
my petals doing what petals do.

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Sorrow is how we learn to love.

—Rita Mae Brown, Riding Shotgun

 

 

If sorrow is how we learn to love,

then let us learn.

Already enough sorrow’s been sown

for whole continents to erupt

into astonishing tenderness.

Let us learn. Let compassion grow rampant,

like sunflowers along the highway.

Let each act of kindness replant itself

into acres and acres of widespread devotion.

Let us choose love as if our lives depend on it.

The sorrow is great. Let us learn to love greater—

riotous love, expansive love,

love so rooted, so common

we almost forget

the world could look any other way.

 

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The Truth

 

 

Inside the bright words

there are other words

that want to be said—

small words

in dark shells.

.

It reminds me

of the sunflowers

that grew in the fall—

how we loved them

for their golden petals,

 

but they were true

to the small dark seeds

that grew them,

to the small dark seeds

they grew.

 

 

 

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inspired by Gnossienne 2, by Erik Satie

 

 

the way morning sun

touches the sunflower leaf—

you may say that’s not kindness,

it’s just how it is. exactly.

let me love like that

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Paradigm

 

 

 

In almost every garden bed,

the sunflowers seedlings volunteer—

and every year I dig them up

and find them a home along the fence

where they can grow extravagantly.

Oh exuberance, of course

I love the sunflowers, their crazy willingness

to grow amongst the beets, amongst

the greens, amongst the chard

and kale and peas. I love their insistence

on making beauty and reaching for light.

I love their great golden heads,

playground of bees, nodding until

all their petals are gone. I know

they don’t mean to shade everything else,

don’t mean to block out the light.

They’re just doing what they were

designed to do. Grow tall.

Be stunning. Gather light. Make more.

 

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tall and clear

wholly illumined by sun

slowly I learn to see

the vase as lovely

even without the sunflowers

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“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.

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Those forlorn, sagging sunflowers,

all morning I watch the severe arcs

of their lifeless stems. Just yesterday,

they were so full of vigor before I pulled them up

and moved them across the garden.

I, too, have been ripped up. Is this why

I can’t stop staring at them all morning

at the slow, slow straightening,

the gradual unflagging of the leaves,

the marvelous resilience

I want to believe I might find inside me

no matter how brutal or well intentioned

the hand that tugs, tugs at my roots.

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It is not so easy to change.
Consider the sunflower you dug yesterday
from one crowded corner of the garden
and moved to another more open space.
How you dug all around it to keep the roots
intact. You pre-watered the new hole.
You told it what would happen. You held
the stem firmly and pulled with great care.
But it didn’t matter, all these precautions.
The sunflower wilted, bent double, leaves
flagged. So why should you not expect
the same when you make a great change
in yourself. It doesn’t matter that the end
result makes more sense or seems healthier.
Change is hard. Though you tell yourself
it will be okay. Though you tug at your own roots
with great care. Here you are, bent double,
dreams flagging, looking dead or close to dead.
And that sunflower, darned if it isn’t on the edge of bloom
even right now outside the window.
It doesn’t always go that way.
But sometimes a gray sky comes along
at just the right time to slow everything down
and damn if those petals aren’t just about
to come up gold.

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