Willard & Maple
Sunflowers Virginia Boudreau
At the old homestead sunflowers newly seeded, brush the stonewall Grandpa built before the Great Depression. Their packed petals are cautionyellow, wired into reverie. The screen door bangs and Mammie’s on the stoop. Her apron’s dusted, her eyes faintly furrowed against the sun. I see those soft, soft fingers holding out a tin cup of cool water drawn from the well beside the back porch. A gentle smile lights her face as he turns from the rocks, wipes his brow. For hours he’s toiled in sweatsoaked doeskin, checkered red calloused hands shimming granite, eyes scanning rubble. Spattered work pants knelt in the field, straddled slabs, bent and braced and heaved until he was ready hat in hand to stand before all the years, hard and soft, to follow
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