Wednesday, August 10, 2011
season for sunflowers
I walk out on the deck after dinner and look out on the garden. Those two sunflowers have grown so big. Over 9 feet tall. Golden petaled face unfurled only today, it seems. I go over to take a look. I pause to think about this sunflower. I look deeply. I remember that we didn't even plant it. It came on its own. Unexpected pleasure. Non-intended reproduction from an earlier, previous year parent. A seed left behind from a bird. Or scattered, perhaps, blown about in the autumnal winds. Seed lying dormant, forgotten under winter's icy blanket. Given birth from rain and mud and rot and sun and warmth. Surrounded by weeds that almost choked it without human care and observation (after realizing what it really was.). Visited by birds. Home to insect friends. A study in symmetry. I see those things as I look closely, later, after taking a picture. Its blossom, even before it opened, turns to seek, to follow the sun. Somehow, it knows to search for it. The face a reflection of that glory that sustains it.