I plant fifty black seeds

mourning the loss of an old life.


As they grow they fix their gaze

away from me toward the rising sun.


Casting long shadows in the garden,

each leaf is a dark heart on the earth.


Ladybugs nest in their buds

and gorge on aphids to disturb the blooms.


Yellow finches devour leaves inside-out

until only the green veins remain.


Strong gold lights up a blue sky

but the roots are easily disturbed.


When unable to draw minerals upward

they bend their necks in despair.


Each one grows taller than people

standing sentinel, heavy with generosity.


Such ripe heads dense with new life

to be pried apart seed by seed by seed by seed.








*𐓨𐓣𐓰𐓪𐓟𐓧𐓣 (mi-to-e-li) is Osage for sunflower, or “like the sun, but not”