Melinda Thomsen
Sunflower Triage with a Hint of Streisand
A rabbit lopped off the first,
slicing its stem with precision.
Its leaves shriveled, but with a fresh
cut and propped by chopsticks
in water some roots appeared.
Hurry, it’s lovely up here.
On the exterior, it’s cheerier.
Life down a hole takes an awful toll.
Days later, I found a sunflower
growing sideways in the cucumber
bed, unearthed but with roots.
Placed in a cup, it leaned
on a chopstick like a lame man.
You’ve got a pot to fill,
and what a gift package
of showers, sun and love.
Think of your own plot of earth
where your new roots finger
outward to pull in a nutrient,
or two. As I placed the flowers
in soil and sunlight, I heard,
Come poke your head out,
Open up and spread out.
It can’t be fun subterranean.
After several weeks, all stood
without a cane or crutch,
erect in newly dug furrows.
Although dwarfed, we stretched
upwards and turned sunward.
Wake up, bestir yourself,
it’s time that you disinter yourself.
You’ve got a spot to fill.
Melinda Thomsen is the author of Naming Rights (Finishing Line Press, ) and Field Rations (Finishing Line Press, ). Her poems have appeared in Stone Coast Review, Tar River Poetry, The Comstock Review, and North Carolina Literary Review, among other journals. She is an advisory editor for Tar River Poetry and teaches composition at Pitt Community College in North Carolina.
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