The same ritual,
Of bending under the will of the mighty sun.
The Sun's aristocratic rays
Stare so haughtily,
Directly into the very soul of the sunflower,
That in this season of perpetual heat,
The sunflowers stalks
Tremble and shiver,
The once tall, proud sunflowers standing
are forced to skim their knees and bow down low,
and grovel to the more superior power
that is the Sun.
They shade their many blinking pupils;
Hide their princely face in shame,
And droop their grand, golden crowned head,
To avoid looking at the shining glory of their master.
Its multiple leafy hands
Touch the brown ground
Like a grand 'salam'
They are bent into different forms
Of a crooked stoop.
Some can't take the weight of responsibility.
They crumple into a tight ball,
Nearing fetal position,
To kiss the earth
And convince the Sun more
Of their undying loyalty.
But every year
There comes a time
When their master is more kind,
That the sunflowers are eased
Enough to begin standing straight,
For their return to humility.