Friday, October 3, 2014

Sunflowers
















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


There are many kinds in my garden.
I grow them as teachers.

I love them; how they embody joy
in a way I find curious and, on days that
I won’t tally,
elusive.

What is it like, I wonder, to be the thing
on which soft bumble bees alight (they are soft,
I have petted them) to collect their dusted gold,
or butterflies – the fritillaries, sachem skippers,
and monarchs – nectar their brave, dazzling lives,
or a differential grasshopper sits long enough to
complete his survey and report unto God
about the things going on down here?

If I chose not to plant them, it wouldn’t be such
a happy garden, and this could be one of those
unlived lives that catch your eye at check out.

It’s true.

I’ll tell you that Summer has gone and they – the
sunflowers - are now bent at the waist by
the weight of their heads, looking
like skinny monks at prayer seeking
emptiness
as fulfillment.

This is when I begin to listen most carefully to the soft
om resonating across the beds of straw at their feet.
Hear now, the wisdom gained from two months
of standing still,

and in the last breath of a well-seasoned death
that I record in my cells,

a vow of endless servitude:

“Now, I shall feed the birds.”



© 2014-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Published by Talking Waters Press

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