Sunflower
Chris (growing fruit)
I don’t always grow sunflowers. Or, at least, I don’t always succeed at growing them. Or maybe I do. More often than not, I wander out and find nubbled green stumps where my babies once were, because some critter — a hungry little cousin — has figured out how to hop the fence, breach the barrier, thumb its nose at my no.
I don’t always grow sunflowers, not all the way. But when I do, I gaze up at massive discs, shaggy plates warm with bees. Seeds take shape in rich clusters. Finches stop in pairs and cock their heads, waiting their turn. And when the petals finally fade, just when you think the beauty is gone — that’s when the beauty begins.
I don’t always grow sunflowers. But when I do, they belong to something larger than myself. The air turns sharp, the leaves fall one by one, and I watch my cousins peck and pull and scatter. In the end I’m left with gristled hunks of husk, strewn about the yard. There’s an ever-present gnawing, a sense of furry cheek-pouches stuffed full. There is the sound of little wings beating. This is where I belong.
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