I miss the loose-stemmed wild flowers;
heads bobbing and bowing in the breeze.
Here in the tropics,
heavy stemmed faces sharp as scythes
stare out of the green.
I miss the humility of a thousand twin faces
coloring a hillside—I miss
the anonymity of blending
I’m tired of being seen,
of knowing the loneliness
of a flimsy imposter
except for these moments
when the sunflower in you
meets my gaze
with seeds spilling between us.
