I was before,
Will be again,
As I am, have
Always been: what
Seeks the sun,
The roll of
Earth; what keeps
Its course from
Birth to birth;
What can in
Combination be an
Art that must
Dismantle me.
To be --is not the
Question here.
I know that
I will reappear.
As soon as I learned enough romance languages, I saw that they all called this flower girasole, one that turns to the sun. And just as the sun reappears every day, so does the girasole to face it: an eternal relationship. You say it so much better here--as does this great photo by Norma!
ReplyDeleteThis poem left me awe-struck or wow-struck. Very nice, I love the little border of tiny sunflower photos(?) at the bottom of Normas picture too.
ReplyDeleteThank you Annie B. and Will. I love the Italian word, girasole, for sunflower. The border of little sunflowers under Norma's were others selected last summer by our local newspaper's sunflower contest. I don't know why they're so much smaller --not enough water maybe.
ReplyDeletefunny
ReplyDelete