The air fills with their scent, I stare at the blooms
and wish a hummingbird would come
or a butterfly stop to admire
the sunflower that blaze on the mount
before it incited this room.
For the yellow will turn burnt orange, then bronze,
and the dried petals will be sinuous banshees,
not wailing of death but singing silently up
to the mountain where they grew like vines,
sucking life from around them, until all I saw
were sunflowers, their wild-mountain scent
calling to me to pick them.