My memory tends a garden plot,

But somehow sunflowers fail to grow.

The rose, of course, is everywhere:

It creeps up fences, stretches out

From vases on the window sill,

And forms a team of twelve to play

A part in clichéd scenes of love.

The lady slippers—pansies too—

As favourites of my mother fill

The humbled ranks of flowers below

The lofty daisies—weeds I thought—

Which sunflowers might replace above

The huddled hyacinths in blue,

But sunflowers are just not there.

I saw them once—that is to say—

I think I saw them once about

Fifteen?—sixteen?—well, years ago.

Or were they only standing still

From brush strokes spreading oil of

Mute yellows on a canvassed spot?

A chicken coop supports those fair

Yet faceless-faces trapped in doubt

Regarding their existence.  Few

Colours have turned to such a grey,

At loss’ whim inside my mind,

As the yellow of the sunflower.

About writewithlightning

I'm a published Canadian poet and fiction writer, posting haiku daily @writelightning on most social media sites. Please like and comment so that I know you're reading. It means a lot to me! View all posts by writewithlightning

3 responses to “Sunflowers

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