| This favorite by Picnic organizer, potter & poet Dale Harris is featured in Mountainair's Art Alley and has become the signature poem of the Sunflower Festival. |
| Manzano Sunflowers |
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And of course the sunflowers. As usual they swept across August At first a few, a yellow trickle along the fence line Then more, making pools in the pasture And splashing down into the arroyo Then incredibly many more, Dappling the distance, As though a giant hand had buttered the land. Yet with the entire prairie to expand into, They prefer crowds of themselves They mass along the roadside, Lined up as though a parade were about to pass. Here and there one stands alone, But not for long. Soon his kin will come And there will be sunflower squalor There will be sunflower squalor, a floral slum. Once they are out, They will not be ignored. Stretching their skinny stalks, They top our roofline, Press against the window screens, And peep in at the door. Familiar foot paths to the out buildings are obscured, And from the road we seem afloat, Our cabin, an odd tin boat In a sea of sunflower faces. They are the most staccato of flowers. I catch them humming snatches of polkas And John Phillips Sousa Marches, Bobbing in the wind to the Boogaloo, The Boogie Woogie and the Lindy Hop. I call their names, Clem, Clarissa, Sarah Jane To try and tame them. My neighbor comes by. She has a field full They’re useless, she complains. Her horses can’t eat them. I should hope not! I exclaim, After she’s gone. I don’t remember if you even liked sunflowers But you liked life And they are all about that. Today I wrote to your family, finally. I expect they are occupying themselves, With beautiful gestures In order to get over the grief of you. As for me, I have sunflowers. by Dale Harris |
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