The
Sunflower Harvest
There
is beauty in decay.
The
sunflower's yellow cartwheel
Of
summer is only a memory,
The
heads bow now with seed,
Arching
to scatter before
The
harvesters' guillotine ends them.
The
heads are sculptural,
A
maze of chambers of precious
Progeny;
brown, protective,
Muted
in design, but generous.
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