Sunflowers hold the seeds of stars
on the tip of their heart's tongue,
or in the wake of the wind's repose,
and only the flutter-by knows.
She dances endlessly through the flame.
Ablaze, yet she will not consume,
nor be consumed;
while her joy lives by candlelight inside her soul.
We will whither the petals to tealeaves.
Light's blood will be forced down our throats:
a desperate medicine,
a cure for our ignorance, unknown.
In her sleep, we'll pluck her perfect wings,
and blow at them, as if at the bare neck
attached to a dandelion's weary head.
Her body's parts will fall like rain
All over us