A final touch on the punctuation pedal, a word removed and into the Archive with you!
I am dead-heading sunflowers,
Heads bowed by their weight
Like guilty kids, though my height and more;
But these are not as humans, for
They are grateful for the loss.
With each snip of secateurs,
The stem springs straight, relieved.
Great saucers, now old and black with seed
And rough to touch
Fall on the soft earth
Each one a giant pocket watch,
Whose petals mark the minutes and hours
In faded gold. Here too
Mexican sunflowers toss their heads:
Piercingly red against the blue -
From which, miraculously,
The clouds have fled.