The Sunflowers

Throughout the summer, sunflowers of all different sizes and shapes have graced my garden, and their time is coming to a close. The petals are dropping, seeds are ripening, and the drying stalks are leaning out at awkward angles. A group of little finches flock to the plants to peck away the seeds, some hanging upside down from the head and some precariously perched sideways on the stalk. These birds are small and fast, and fly way when I get close. I’ve even seen a woodpecker hammering away to get its share of the tasty morsels.

To honor these awesome flowers that brought such color and joy to my garden, I wanted to share a collection of my favorite pictures captured over the past few months. Some have been posted before, some where on my Instagram, some just captured because they made me happy!

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Come with me
            into the filed of sunflowers.
                        Their faces are burnished disks,
                                    their dry spines
creak like ship masts,
            their green leaves,
                        so heavy and many,
                                    fill all day with the sticky
sugars of the sun.
            Come with me
                        to visit the sunflowers,
                                    they are shy
but want to be friends;
            they have wonderful stories
                        of when they were young—
                                    the important weather,
the wandering crows.
            Don’t be afraid
                        to ask them questions!
                                    Their bright faces,
Which follow the sun,
            will listen, and all
                        those rows of seeds—
                                    each one a new life!—
hope for a deeper acquaintance;
            each of the, though it stands
                        in a crown of many,
                                    like a separate universe,
is lonely, the long work
            of turning their lives
                        into a celebration
                                    is not easy. Come
and let us talk with those modest faces,
            the simple garments of leaves,
                        the coarse roots in the earth
                                    so uprightly burning.

 – Mary Oliver, from Dream Work, 1986



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