a burst of lovely yellows hopes
a star of the stunning sky.
them, looking down
upon the other flowerets,
cultivated by bonsai.
anchored in the substrata it stems
more than shoulders, more than heights.
verdant green leaves of which look
less like lance-ovate but my heart,
lumpish and ever fertile.
course hairs run all along its surface,
leaves ticklish and sandpaper-like.
blowing in the air of poetry, mumbling me-
” faulty aren’t always the thorny roses, but
also, us, who you poets never describe.”
soon the field calls for an Aster romance,
the sun crosses the horizon and them, their paths.
blossoming may have the entire garland
but sunflower of the Peach Passion
has it’s picturesque vehement too.