Sunflowers

                 for Detra

by Kathi Wolfe

You detected pretentiousness

the way a gardener pulls out weeds.

You championed understatement

the way your Yankees win

the World Series year after year.

Knowing you're gone, I long

to crush the sunflowers

nesting in the vase on my coffee table.

What right do they have to be so peaceful,

without tears, when you had to box

with the Grim Reaper light years

before you wanted to enter the ring?

I don't know why birds sing,

dogs bark or lovers quarrel,

let alone why diseases spread

or wars never end.

I only know:

every time the Yankees bat,

an outsider knocks on the door,

or a sunflower blooms,

I'll think of you.

August 2014