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Sunflower

 O Sunflower waiting anxiously to learn if it scored that position in HR that it applied for: of course constraints exist in the human wind. Poll numbers, poll numbers, but sunflower roots delve into real earth. Symbiosis with the sun, turning its head to the real light, by no means wigged out. The field becomes a-gasp with fecund rife. Birds pluck seeds while verity flares. A field of universe in the play and ploy of forces and saturations. No sickness exists but the proceeding moment. Someone thinks they harvest but the entire animal is free. Sunflower tall as stature, ripe as genome, the wind itself a farmstead. Largeness in the tiniest seems like concerto dollop in Bach's flair. You are only as rich as your plantation. Every act involved and the temerity ordained in just this touch, of wind, in the foliage, now.


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