|Penny Hilton|
When I planted
I thought they would be sunflowers,
You know, the big, round, heavy heads,
A feudal feast of seeds rimmed yellow with little petals,
The season’s rustical finale.
But it became clear as the summer sunned on
That they were another thing.
The stalks, staying thin, branched early,
Leafing out in iterations growing smaller the further out they grew,
And only finally setting the little knobs that,
Only finally, became flowers.
No heavy heads, these, but each one of many on each stalk
A single circle of overgenerous petals
Around a tiny button of tinier seeds.
These sunny flowers sway so slightly, lightly in the garden air,
They look like a butterfly would bear them down.
But, no, they spring supple as the chickadee, or goldfinch, or small sparrow
Rides and sups at the same time, bird and tender branch, a dance.
Since that first summer, I count on their reseeding,
Pull some out strategically – they would certainly crowd out
The shorter, more solid, stolid flower population – and leave
A scattered band of vagabonds who brighten the declining days,
Shining in my window,
A feast, a festival, indeed, for finches
And for me.
