Yellow faces braying
kick the anatomy
of day open.
Startled green, thick leaves prick
like ears of a stubborn animal.
There will never be a word
a flower can comprehend about itself.
Many make a meadow
of yellow-sun selves
multiplied in seeming endless
various blare.Memory wants a name
that worship doesn’t need,
reflection in the mind
more pattern than prayer.
The eyes scroll through images
of golden blossoms,
devoted to searching life
remaindered, cataloged,
encyclopedic, trying to hoard forever
the yellow which wavered
in that moment on its stalk,
pert leaves a blur
each flared open
as if they might be learning to listen.
