I was a week late.
I was a week past peak.
The sunflowers were a little peckish,
having sat out in the sun
through the broiling heat wave
and all the lovely tourists
oohing and ah-ing and buying
all the bunches of bouquets.
I went to see them
when nobody wanted them any more
except for cows eager to chew their goodness.
Their faded yellowness
their crowns of seeds about to explode on the ground
their mustard petals shriveling in the sun.
They hung their heads limp
yet dry as toast without butter
sunflower oil dripping down their leaves
like wings to flight.
All aged, All withered, all worn out.
Well done, good and faithful sunflowers,
you are ready to be turned out to pasture
and feed the cows.
Moo.
Blessed in the sun.
Deborah D Fleet 8-6-2022
Beyond Immovable 