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.
write with lightning 
April 21st, 2010 at 10:50
Thanks to Mikki Senkarik for letting me use her painting!
Her blog:
http://mikkisenkarik.wordpress.com/
Her website:
http://www.senkarik.com/
April 21st, 2010 at 22:33
lovely! Well done Mikki, well done lightning!
May 25th, 2010 at 17:36
i only just read this poem, but it’s beautiful. the accompanying painting is ravishing and i praise the artist’s skill. i sense the theme of losing something touching and magnificent and seeking for it forever more in your life. over that gradual process of selling our souls which call human life we lose these treasures; but we buy our souls back with each quest for these treasures that we undertake.