The Sunflower Sutra, Part II

“We are not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re Golden Sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment; bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset ‘Frisco hilly tin-can evening sit-down vision.

-Allen Ginsberg, 1955. 

The sunflower field.

The field. I sat in the grass all by my lonesome in that field.

Two sunflowers

like two big black eyes wide open staring back at me –

they always win.

. . . . .

The wind dipped their heads up and down and up and down

a council of judgement

deciding the final verdict

delivering my fate in nods of consent.

. . . . .

I wondered as I sat in that field what would come of me

knowing the flowers made up their minds –

knowing I trusted them fully

as I trust the universe to be wise.

. . . . .

Suddenly, the wind threw me off solid ground

I fell down to my knees in surrender

of the towering sunflowers and their omniscient eyes;

the petals fluttered about my cheeks

the sun warmed my being,

and I knew.

I was free. 

***Image: Van Gogh, Sunflower details***


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