Ignoring the heat,
 
three sunflowers pop open
 
in a dusty place.

 
 
 

Though your heads are bowed,
 
won’t you sing me one last song,
 
fading sunflowers?

 
 

Battered by the wind,
 
the sunflowers still manage
 
to sing blooming songs.

 
 

Tea and sunflowers—
 
I have a friend who loves both,
 
and writes poems.

 
 
 

“Sunflowers be damned!
 
We need tanks and fighter jets,”
 
the generals say.

 
 
 

deepening autumn—
 
sunflowers wasted by frost
 
and my cooling tea

 
 
 

The tattered scarecrow
 
wears sunflowers in his hat—
 
an autumn dandy.

 
 
 

By a dusty ditch
 
the sunflowers keep blooming,
 
wearing morning mist.

 
 
 

Savaged by the wind,
 
the sunflowers still manage
 
to sing blooming songs.

 
 
 

Defying winter,
 
the sunflowers keep blooming
 
near my backyard fence.