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Helianthus

Some things makes sense.

A seed
—this seed—
A tiny black teardrop
falling from a ratio
more golden than the rays
that shield your perfect face.

You salute the skies.
Air
and light
Make sugar in your palms.

Every breath that rises
pulls life
—up—
through your grounded dirty feet.

And the finch,
this yellow finch,
clutches that face
Calls to the wind
the same
beat
repeating.

Until she chooses herself
to answer.

By reason she grows
No fanfare.
No expectation.
Just knowing to make life.
To live it.

—Why—
then
do you sing to me
repeating:
“You are everything and all of it”

And then turn your head
As if you had not meant to speak?

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