Written on returning from the farmer's market:

Still Life with Sunflowers 

When I cut elastic from the sunflowers,

the stems, girdle-less now, spread

against the glass-lipped vase, each bloom

lolling like a tourist on a cruise.

You fed me blueberries from a colander,

and I looked over your shoulder at the still life

with nothing still about it-a sprawl of calyx

and corolla, pistils waving, rings of stamens

straining toward the ceiling so close

 to a sky full of bees.

When the pollen fell, it dusted the room

with a stain that yellowed the counter.

I never could get that color out,

though I'd easily kissed all the blue

from your fingers.