At times I let the fingertips
Of my own hand
Run through the softness
Of my head's hair.
Harvesting a sunflower
That has grown for over two decades
Takes incredible patience.
The fear of losing those flaxen petals
Is so much of what drove me
To reseed my own soil.
Allowing the water to come
From an industry
That cares less about me
But more about the fact that I compensate their interests
Is to sip rather than to bite.
Don’t bite the mouth that feeds you, they say.
Well maybe I want to finish the bread
That is laid under my tongue
Braided from wheat in a crackling field
That waves and dances similar
To my own corded hair.
Then maybe I will be both
Happy and enraged.
«This is Day 1 of my 30 poems in 30 days challenge for National Poetry Month! Subscribe so you don’t miss a poem!»
Gorgeous! Love the language and the flow of words.
"Harvesting a sunflower
That has grown for over two decades
Takes incredible patience.
The fear of losing those flaxen petals
Is so much of what drove me
To reseed my own soil."
Beautiful! ❤️🌻