flowers of the field

i guess i was just kidding...

if i'm writing for recognition i'm doing it for the wrong reason.

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late in the summer
a ripened sunflower of the field,
just past it's period of awkward wild growth,
dropped a seed into the ground

it watched in amazement and pride
as a single, beautiful tendril,
a tangle of green life,
began to shoot out of the soil

the young sprout, unaware
and unspoiled in it's growth,
came not up against disease or drought
but healthily thrived
in the shadow of it's wilting womb

delicate and innocent, it seemed
the season changed,
and was unkind to the late bloomers

ripened sunflower, it sees
a struggle to survive and to flourish
with its offspring's roots gasping for rain

the blossom does not understand,
cannot recognize its own former state,
wildly producing buds and new shoots
in a desperate attempt to reach the light

it forgets the cut of the wind
and the frost creeping up
in the dark night of the soul

ripened sunflower and tangle of green

the light will take them both one day
round the globe cross ancient seas
équateur champs sans gel
eternal summer of the soul