Sunshine for Your Inner Sunflower

Sunshine for Your Inner Sunflower

     I lie by your side as a sultry summer breeze blows ripples in your skirt. Leaves rustle in the wind. Your dark feathery hair is blown about. It cascades down your shoulders in waves of silky gossamer. Petals are strewn around us in a carpet of nature’s bullion but soft as a whisper on a spring breeze. The field is a wild garden alive with splashes of sunlit stalks crowned like sun kings.
     Gazing into your eyes an ocean of sadness spreads out before me. Dark shadings of love are shadowed by numbing coolness. I see your uncertainty as you fall back with your hands clenched at your sides as I reach to hug you, the fear of a touch written in your furtive downward glance.
     The hunger in your eyes radiates like magnified sun rays piercing my heart with delicious searing leaving me full of pulsing desire. As your hesitant fingers brush my face, moments pass like a trickling brook. Drops of time flow by in a stream of bliss. The sun of your face shines like a thousand stars. I tenderly open the petals of your mind with soft-spoken words of love reaching into the depths of your wounded heart.
     I feel your shame flow out in a deep river of tears hidden deep beneath layers of guilt. The blood blushes in your face with the fire of your nameless pain. Your pulse throbs with each shudder of cresting waves. The terror of losing yourself flitters in your obsidian eyes. Reaching out across the wasteland of sorrow I touch your heaving chest feeling your heartbeat. Your throbbing essence cries out to me like a chorus of dark angels.
     But the Saffron sunflower forest is reflected in your eyes as it rises under the turquoise vault of heaven on pelagic plains at the edge of this ice age land we call home. In this place where bison once roamed free, we tussle on golden petals strewn on a patch of earth under the Kansas cloudscape like wrestlers in a love match for a farm boy and girl getting our Sunday best caked in loess mud for only the blackbirds to witness. Our youth wrestles with having come into the age when love is no longer a crush but the possibility of so much more including making a family. The mist in her eyes lifts. “Will you still call me Birdie?”
     “Terms of affection like that grow on you and keep their freshness even in old age.”
     “Well, then you’ll always be Tommy to me. Alas, my dress is too far gone for detergent. But any guilt I had for behaving like a child has gone the way of the dodo bird.”