Do the sunflowers decide?
Do they each select a garden,
or the school courtyard
where the baseball team spit seeds,
or my neighbor’s muddy yard?
Next to the street, at the edge
of a rutted dirt driveway
where he parks his motorcycle
one tall and improbable Sunflower
lights the weedy lawn flecked with car parts.
How oddly they are distributed
these gifts of flowers, birds, the gods.
Who know how they choose
the lucky, bemused winners?
Puff Of Smoke Poems 