Cotton lands sticky against my neck…
Notice the muted powder-puff chaos? What is
the worth of blurred perfection? 
If I were no bigger than a toothpick,
I would sink my fingers into the tender marrow
of the sunflower stem, push my face against
its petaled sterility without fear, and watch
the seeds mature…
what picnic blanket, cross-legged, socked foot ease
might settle into
the grain of my existence if
watching the sway of dancing flowers
was my only chore…my own blush may wilt in
the humidity of this
midday. 

-in response to Sunflowers, a painting by Vincent Van Gogh