The Last Sunflower
As the sun's promised morning rose, the blistering heat was soon to beat the farmer later as he played his typical routine. Patching, sharpening, fertilizing-the fields were demanding and hungry. That hunger grew beside the crops' ever growing bodies, like fresh month-old babies but the exponential appetite like that of a teenager. Photons freshly packed and fed in basking heat as fresh water sprinkled upon the crops until the very end of their lives and eventual fate as fodder themselves. There was no trade-off ever more peaceful than a herd of crops and his fields, what source of fodder to them lies where the very root of existence begins; simple yet resourceful.
However, as the farmer pranced about his act of routine like any other, there was a field of sunflowers too to be kempt. With this in mind, he packed all that he needed to sprinkle to allow the greatest growth that each of these sunflowers were capable of. Each of them waited ever so patiently for their sustenance, longing for even another day under their homely abode. This was home, simple and throughout, and each and every one of them knew that. Hadn't they?
The farmer, along with his boisterous tractor, made their way to the fields of flowering gold. At arrival, he immediately began his route. Up and down, each row gratified for another day of basking under their god. When the farmer finally reached his last row, he realized that he filled just enough except for the very last sunflower. Without realizing before the last of it meekly dripped from the spout, he looked at the last sunflower with eyes that only read, "what a shame." The truth of this farmer's methods lied not only in his routine, strict and thorough, but when cuts (himself described) that "had to be made," he agreed simply then and there that the little sunflower was simply not worth the trouble.
"I'm sure the rain itself will take care, I'm mighty sure." Comforting himself, he packed up to prepare for the rest of the blistering day to come.
The very last sunflower, sitting there simply shocked by the farmer's actions, tried best to comfort what it could of itself. "I am sure the farmer will be back, the rain will come, and I will be okay. . ." The sun made its own routine along, up, then descended patiently over the horizon.
The rain hoped by both owner and fodder had simply never come.
The last sunflower then thought, "hopefully tomorrow shall come both rain and the
farmer! I will grow just as the rest of my fellow peers and be happy, fed and content with what I will end up being in my life. Big and strong I will become!"
As this hope rose the sunflower's spirits, tomorrow came as it did. Neither farmer or cloud, and simply the sun's own promise of nutrients kept the sunflower satiated only of its hunger. Tomorrow came again, a few clouds but only that of which saved the farmer a moment of briskly shade.
Again and again, it was terribly clear that neither the rain nor the farmer came. The last sunflower kept looking out for clouds, but none were near even against the horizon of the forest ahead. Deep-seated feelings within the last sunflower of jealousy, sorrow–and most of all–the thirst of love and attention gripped at every edge of its soul, swallowing and engorging the last sunflower. In the midst of exhaustion from crippling jealousy of the care for other sunflowers to the fear of wilting away, rationale flocked down to save the sunflower from death of exhaustive rumination. “Every four days. . . he will come and I will be saved. But until then, I will wait. . .”
At this point, hope was not enough and passing of stars and clouds came to no comfort of the poor sunflower, dreading the wilting of its beautiful yellows and greens it once held high and proud. But then, upon the fourth day, the farmer appeared high and mighty with his roaring tractor and glowing canister of eternal life and youth.
“Pray! My fate is saved by the stroke of routine! Save me, love me, and allow mine to flourish unlike any other!”
The farmer painted the fresh droplets of water upon each leaflet of the sunflowers, ensuring each of them had just enough so the rays of sun bounced upon each flower like that of a witness of God himself upon the very beauty of each golden ring. One by one, the farmer grew in silent satisfaction upon his proper way as a farmer.
Finally reaching the last sunflower, the farmer dawned a look of surprise. Without realizing this, however, the sunflower brought its most hued leaflets upon the brightest, shimmering rays of the sun towards the farmer. Waiting patiently yet adamant, the sunflower expected the final refreshment it would need. Yet, the sunflower was left aghast and confused, expecting the cold, fresh droplet to cleanse each of its leaves and nourish its roots, yet neither ever became.
The farmer turned his back to the sunflower, annoyed, and decided: the only way to amend his error is to remove the root of the problem. There were simply too many sunflowers.
The sunflower yearned for replenishment and hope grew ever greater yet with anticipation greater than any other emotion the sunflower has ever experienced within its short life. Allowing the world to succumb and fold upon itself, and awaiting a renewal in being, the sunflower eased and allowed the rays to warm its hollowed, tired being.
Turning back to front the sunflower, the shovel in his right hued a burning orange. Glowing in hope, the sunflower’s anticipation sank as the dagger twisted, snapped, and perforated the roots of the sunflower, breaking them from the sunflower's mother.
In the knitted basket, the poor little sunflower was thrown in was shaded and cool but absent of the nourishing refreshment like that of the water it always yearned for. As it lay dying in the midst of the bellowing tractor along the apathetic routine of the farmer, visions peered upon the last moments of the last sunflower of a new day under the clouds of loving rain interspersed with the warmth grasp of the sun.
No longer was the last sunflower
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