A single sunflower
in the absence of sun
windswept rays
of a swaying refugee
capturing bliss
like a beaming nun
gripping her gilded
bible with glee;
I have no way
of knowing the real you
or getting closer
than the last few feet
each time I see
your face, it’s true
though now it’s so rare
that we ever meet;
once, all was light
and they floated to me
all the shivering ladies
and goose bump breasts
and afterwards, we
would all seem free
of life’s little trials
and worthless tests;
the cold has arrived
here much too early
and the days are begging
for scraps of light
I’m still reaching, but
it’s always nearly
and our flimsy passion
will never ignite.
