Sunflower Apostasy*

by Leslie Moore

These flowers don’t worship the sun,
don’t tilt their faces towards its fire,
don’t trace its arc from east to west.
They bow their shaggy heads
to the gardener — the woman
who tucks their seeds into beds,
tamps soil around them,
frees their roots from weeds,
baptizes them with water
from the rain barrel
fed by the downspout
at the comer of the house
evenings after supper.
When they bolt to the heavens
in a rapture of soaring limbs
and blousy leaves,
they beam down upon her,
their faces haloed in flames.
She moves among them,
pinching here, picking there,
touching, tending.
They track her radiant presence
through the garden,
the sweet arc of her spine,
the vital force of her hands.