Some reworkings and new thoughts...
I am dead-heading sunflowers
Their heads bowed by the weight
Like guilty children, but my height and more.
Though these are not as humans, for
They are grateful for the loss:
With each snip of secateurs
The stem springs up and straight.
relieved. The great saucers now old and black with seed
(with old seed?)
And rough to touch
Fall on the soft earth / or with a clump into my bucket
Each one a giant pocket watch
Whose petals mark (the) minutes and hours
In faded gold. Here too
(Are) Mexican sunflowers / toss their heads
Piercingly red against the blue
from which, miraculously, the clouds have fled.