It’s morning.
The Sunflower opens Her face and looks up – up;
She looks forward to the Sun’s rays and warmth.
She is made alive.

The Sunflower looks up and smiles,
Looks up, and smiles,
At the beautifully-humble Sun.

Finally, the Sun’s gaze focuses on the Sunflower, once.

He then does his chore without struggle,
with dedication.
Gracefully, effortlessly.
with compassion.
He shines.
Breathtaking.

The Sunflower looks up and smiles,
Looks up, and smiles,
At the beautifully-humble Sun.

She is made alive.

Breathtaking.

But how she dreads the Sunset.
It’s nearing, the offering of the Kiss long foretold.
He looks forward to it all day, all day, everyday:
His Kiss signifying Eve's rebirth,
His Kiss bidding the World goodbye,
His Kiss renewing His promise to His Moonwife.

The Sunflower could not bear to see,
but she could do nothing.
She wanted to wilt but cannot,  
the Sun is too gentle;
One does not wilt in such mellow courtesy.

Alas, the Sun is setting.
Now it’s coming, and she could do nothing.

Yellow, yellow, the Sun is too happy.
Sorrow, sorrow, the Sunflower’s dying.
Fair.
Golden.
Unnoticed.