A touch of gold beckoned from across the yard. Swaying with the gentle breeze, it waved a friendly greeting. I must respond.
Alone, it grew from a mound of dirt, birthed from a seed dropped by bird in flight. Long-stemmed and straight, it turned its face toward the sun, reflecting gold against gold.
Perfectly shaped, elliptical petals circled a deep-colored heart. I fingered each fragile bit of gold, sensed an ever-so-slight prickling from the core and wondered how such delicate life could break through the soil, unbruised.
But it was more than a pretty flower. I did not plant it. I did not invite it into my yard. I did not nurture it. I had not even thought about it until it arrived.
And yet, it came, uninvited. It survived unknown perils. It grew. And it gave joy.
For several weeks, it stood sentry-like, solitary, staid. And every day, I acknowledged its being and was, in return, renewed. Communication, though not a word was spoken.
Then it was gone. Unaware of its importance to me, the mower cut it down along with the weeds. And now, the yard once again is neat and trimmed. But something is missing. Hopefully the lone plant lived long enough to see and its offshoots will rise again.
If not, it’s not gone completely. For it brought a touch of gold to an Indian summer and to a memory. Sunflower.
1976
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