
A giant sunflower appeared in my garden in space carved through grass and dirt long before I arrived
I’ve planted bulbs here twice in autumn when planting feels melancholy knowing there’s nothing they need from me in winter
I didn’t grow this sunflower but I didn’t kill it either
Some weeds demand respect
with stems so thick and strong
you question what you’ve been told
I went away for weeks
to see the sister whose voice
held me in quarantine
Came back to a being taller than me by a foot My eyes looking up
to a cluster of tough green leaves
steadily opening
I hope for flowers
born of seed
carried by bird or wind
to earth outside the door
I live in awe
of a giant sunflower
I did not plant
Thinking about seeds and what we kill and how I ever called this garden mine
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