After Allen Ginsberg and William Blake
Sunflower, greyed and coated with the grime of war,
you’ve never confused military-industrial soot
with your golden petals.
Your taproot extends up to five feet deep.
Spawns networks of smaller branches,
pulses through the soil.
Unblinking, your corolla faces the sun,
absorbs its rays. At sixteen feet, you give us
canopies of yellow and green.
No spitting out seeds like broken teeth!
You scatter them, creating flowered fields.
We harvest seeds for food, for cooking oil.
Native to the Americas, you were transported
to Europe by explorers. Who massacred
native people.
Gunfire pierces the darkened sky.
People flee, buildings topple. Sunflower,
you stand facing golden warmth.
