On drives from dawn to dusk,
the road spinning by us through powdered light,
My mother sprayed ‘Sunflowers’ through her hair,
the amber musk suspended like mist,
falling on us, sweet and bright.
You hand me a book, wrapped in brown paper, sketched with sunflowers,
and I look at you like a child told how tall they’ve become,
Like a sunflower, bursting with pure golden belief in the sun.