On Waiting for the Sunflowers to Die

Death is tender for me, as I imagine it's tender for many. This morning, a beautiful blue winged moth, its dead body now being eaten by ants on the sidewalk, moves me to tears. But I want to embrace death even as I find myself tenderized by it. And so it teaches me.

This poem came after surveying my yard of dying sunflowers. The sunflowers are in every one of our garden and flower beds, as crops of new volunteers arise each year. A week ago, when I felt the urge to uproot the dying plants I told myself to wait until they'd fully died - until they'd fully given of themselves - before taking them to the compost pile. And from that waiting came this poem.

On Waiting for the Sunflowers to Die by Karly Randolph Pitman

It's true, the sunflowers are nearly dead.
Some may say they're ugly – brown husks
of their former selves. But if you crumble
their soft centers, you'll find the small
dark seeds, food for the doves and promises
of flowers to come. And if you step outside
on a still September morning, you'll see
the conference of the birds, their cooing bodies
thrumming between the dying suns, feasting
on the last flesh of your flowers. Every dying
feeds new life. So move slowly. Let the birds eat,
and then, when the stalks are empty, their seeds
fully spent, uproot their withered stems
and harvest their bodies for next year's blessing.

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With a grateful heart, Karly