A sunflower spikes its wheeling fan
like a pinwheel frozen in time;
its yellow halo hypnotizes the eye,
transporting it briefly to Neverland.
That sturdy stalk stands bolt upright
with only slight hint of irreverent pride,
conveying subtle, implied dignity,
which might be labeled mere oversight.
Although yellow petals outdo the eye,
its brownness whispers centrifugal force,
something like our heart or even mind,
yet we dismiss that idea with a sigh.
Somewhere in my over-complicated head,
there’s a sunflower seed growing like a weed,
finding nourishment in whatever I eat,
especially the most abstruse things I’ve said.
When golden sunflowers appear in dreams
as omens of truth or immortality,
we judge such visions as crippled poetry—
exaggerations of what merely seems.
As I pluck a fresh, mature sunflower
and place it in a proper, tall, slim vase,
I find it works inspirational magic
like the aura of raindrops in a shower.