Sunflowers in a Field

 

Sunflowers in a field.

Goldfinches everywhere.

They gorge on seed.  They rise

To rest along the powerline, then fall

Like drizzled lemon drops, like lozenges

Of candied yellow light.

Two weeks a year goldfinches

Gather on sunflowers here.

These evenings after supper,

You see them in the honey-soft glow

As if they'd trapped and somehow stored

The rapture of September's sun.

You see goldfinches flicker

Among sunflower lanes,

Through mortal tides of light,

Through streams of apricot and chardonnay,

And you resolve to live

Your life with greater sympathy.

Sunflowers bowing their char black dials,

Their petals twist and writhe

Like fires, like silk coronas blazing west.

How inconceivable, then,

The pewter cold front clouds,

The shabby settlement of crow and wren.

Though no one hears the oath,

You shall, you tell yourself,

Forego deceit, increase the tithe.

Atone,  Forgive.  Embrace.  You watch

Gold finches and sunflowers both

Begin to fade by subtle green degrees

They shed that bullion luster of the sun

Until the finches ricochet

Like flints among the drowsing flowerheads.

Perhaps, as I have done,

You'll pace the darkling half mile home

Intent on picking up the telephone

To reconcile with long lost friends.

You will apologize, concede.

You'll vow to never, ever, ever let

Such distance grow again.

But then you reach your door and find

The day diminished to a thin blue rind

Of light above the township silhouette.

How nice a hot bath sounds.

Dessert.  An herbal tea.

Perhaps you'll read the Arts

And Leisure pages of The Daily News.

With every stair you climb

Sleep settles just a little more behind

The knees, beneath the shoulder blades.

The calls, you tell yourself,

Perhaps some other time.

Daniel Anderson