Friends who wish me peace,
it’s a handhold in the dark
of a dark morning.

The peace in caring,
under fog, sun, sunflowers —
the sigh and the breath.

Wings like glass panels,
the bumblebee’s devotion —
October coming.

Under sunflowers,
our reconciliation
happens silently.

It’s easy to think
the sunflower is like me,
head up, still forlorn.

I’ve become something
while waiting in the darkness,
I didn’t expect.

July sunflower,
a yellow like no other,
bursting with yellow.

A face made of seeds,
body and head grown from seed,
of and for the earth.

Soft yellow faces,
the bee and the sunflower
cling to each other.

My dear sunflower,
three vowels raise your round head,
bee on your face.

Nearly mid-August,
the cicadas have started,
and this sunflower.

The August luster
of the sunflower head—
pouring out and in.

Your bright yellow head,
home with me now, sunflower—
we nod to the sun.

The limited days
to imagine all that’s next—
to sing and make things.

Sunflowers are seeds,
the key is to stop trying—
seeds are sunflowers.

Orange sunflower—
a round, rough-petaled planet,
orbited by bees.

Today with my dog,
visiting the sunflowers,
faces to the clouds.

Bed of sleeping bees,
sunflower, a yellow moon
quiet and blooming.

Unfathomable
worries and fears come to life,
despite all of this.

Twin bees work at dusk,
we weave through the garden paths,
part of the landscape.