Across the street tall sunflowers loiter casually
erect against the discontent grey sky
dropping back to night.
These evening hours offer no glow
save the ineffective citrus streetlamps,
whereby all black birds along the wires
wring out some final notes, an outline.
It's safe to suppose
the sun wont come out from its heavy covers
tomorrow.
It is June already.
There are no high noons
or bright summer blues.
The cat peering outside
the window with me
just opened the door and left me
for more real things
than light projected
imagery.
And as the grey becomes plum
I lay and delay entering the fold
for fear
of waking in tears
again, chest heaving and caving in
to-night.
When the sunflowers slept
standing up to thick dew
I wept
with my salty lips persed
quivering and inept.
My substance too,
tiny inside.
The promiscuous sunflowers
stand their opposing ground
as phosphorescent agents
of small seeds at eye level.
Despite this disposition,
knowing blended night-
it is tempting to drop everything.
Their swollen faces
turn away from me too
in defiance of summer sun
and still bloom in full gloom.
Painting by Claude Monet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
