The sunflower stalks lie in the backyard
lake carnage, like old beliefs.
Syrup oozes from the rotten blossoms.
Longer than a man, they waste in the
sunlight, they atrophy, they burn.
Above them, the gnats hover. Each drawn to
the sugar of death, sucking vitality
from the sweetness of the flowers’ failure.
They feast on cellulose, banqueting
on what the sparrows and jaybirds disdain.
What is left of these stalks will be shredded
and spread upon November ground. Time feeds
on itself the way next year’s sunflowers
will gather strength from these. The way
darkness births twilight, and twilight, dawn.
Robert L. Penick, Louisville