Sunflowers
The sunflower
cannot change what it is, it will always
turn toward the sun.
— Tu Fu, “Feng-Hsien Return Chant”
In French, they are les tournesols, and they do, they do, they turn to the sun,
follow the white-hot disc on its daily rounds. At night, no light, they nod
their sleepy heads, let their shoulders slump, then face the east
with hope each dawn. Brown-eyed, yellow-rayed, they rasp in the wind,
a whole section of cellos. Once, driving around a bend, I came across
a field of them bobbing, the blue sky waving madly behind them.
I wanted to stay, learn their language of oily seeds and scratchy stalks,
let the wind move through my green arms, lift my yellow hair, toss it this way
and that, my feet firm in the dirt. Feel the earth, the yoga teacher says.
Feel the pulse of the planet. Be the pulse. I nod, heavy-headed,
and heft my burden of light.
BARBARA CROOKER has published twelve chapbooks and nine full-length books of poetry. Read more.
“Sunflowers” first appeared in Kaleidowhirl.