Mornings I place them
by the open window
close to air and light
freshly watered
freshly changed.
I unfold the sheets
and eyes follow me as sun-
flowers follow after light.
Some drift up to touch.
Some fall open.
Petals slacken
like seaweed at ebb tide.
I’ve seen them blanch
as lichen whitens stone
and cheeks shed shades of gold.
For years they’ve seen my day begin.
Oh, let this season be to die in.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 3.
See all items about Diana Cole