Sunflower
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She sings to me on morning sun
and shines her smiling face at me.
A child, through fields I used to run,
swimming sweeping waves like the sea.
Her eyes prismatic, a story
of temper and patience bereft,
of seeds that ripen and drop hoary,
like friends of old who came then left.
Copyright © Linda Alice Fowler | Year Posted 2022
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