The rain and wind have battered away at my sunflowers They belong to me--I grew them (not him) I remember your sunflowers. I hate to tell you this, but I joined the flinches in their pillage, until I discovered the disappointment of raw seeds. Look they have toppled over, stiff stalks at sad angles, in this photograph--I'm five, maybe six, sunflowers looming, the frame canšt contain them. I'm wearing a crown made of yellow felt & purple velvet, I'm crushing their flowers, bedraggled, wilted, birds picked at their seeds, the tabby cat in my arms, I'm grinning like someone just gave me a pony. I didn't know the flowers soon I must come to their aid and cut them down above my head gathered as disciples, your declaration of war, re-arrange what happened, the way it was I didn't know he would become so skilled at departure. -- By Angela C. Dancey