You are the sunflower that knows
where to stand, stamens

like fire-keepers in a cool place, sexy
flames and generations, each petal

a wet paintbrush waiting
to fling itself against a wall.

Mid-September, rush of the creek,
rush of the poplars, and you

off to the side with your secret
knowledge and your love of bees.

You're the sun they come to.
You know how to be loved,

to unfold in all directions.
You bring two of everything,

disc you, ray you—defiant as any
possibility—you look right into

my questions and ask, ask . . . 
I love how you give up,

same time each year, disappear,
your secrets right beneath the surface—