The sunflower reaches up:

Tall and proud

Vainly striving to reach the sky:

A Sisyphean task.

For the wind batters;

Bruises as it nears.

Faces forced to bow.

Stems snapped like broken backs.

Nevertheless, they still believe.

Winter comes: a forced retreat.

Petals wither and fall.

Reduced, reused, recycled.

No longer of interest

To bees, birds and we

Who only see the first

Flush of beauty.

Returned unto the soil.