Sunflowers

I remember the sunflowers in my father's backyard.

They grew above my young, wondering head,
those magnificent orbs,
those black-faced lions
with manes of gold
and mouths full of seeds.

My father would pick those seeds,
breaking the shells between his teeth,
smiling as I amused myself.

When I watered those sunflowers,
I held the hose up to the sky
making sure their pretty heads
got a drink of water too.

As the water fell like a curtain
around my head, I wove
in and out of the spray,
rainbows dancing before my eyes.

I was under a crown of
beautiful glass tears,
and for a few rare moments, I felt safe.
Under that veil, that crossfire
of soft, wet diamonds, flanked by lions,
I was protected.

Where have those sunflowers gone?
It's been years.
Lions once so proud
with their faded heads thrown back in the dust.

I remember the sunflowers in my father's backyard.