A sunflower grows
in the melting blue of an ombré pot
on the windowsill of my sunlit room.
The suggestion of my supportive friends
is advice I can attest to:
It benefits a plant
if you talk to it
and sing to it,
and whether it’s owed to the music of my voice,
or the carbon dioxide brimming from my lips,
I talk anyway,
and I wonder
if it would help me grow
if I could hear You talk to me.

My sunflower is more of a greenflower now,
standing with only a foot’s height of pride,
still lacking the distinctive, bright yellow petals
and clinging to an unwavering pencil
for its needed support.
Are You my pencil?

When I was seven,
my dad planted maple trees
marching along the front yard.
When I was nine,
my mother seeded sunflowers
lining the winding driveway.
Fast-forward eight summers:
the sunflowers have long since wilted,
and the shriveled maples have been replaced.
My dad claims his thumb isn’t
the faintest shade of green.
But I know You have never failed
to keep me alive.

I maintain my sunflower,
and You sustain me.
But a plant’s dependence
is not on a person,
and this is where the parallels end.
You created an entire world of green and growth,
sprout and stem,
fern and forest,
leaf and lily.
There are fields,
jungles,
woodlands,
oceans of plant life
that man is unaware of.
But if a single second occurred
that I slipped Your mind,
it would be the second I disappeared.

Sunflowers grow
on the windowsill of my sunlit room
and in a little corner of a vibrant cosmos.
I was always taught that You listen
when I talk to You,
and whether it’s because You ordained my words
or the fact that I am Your child,
I talk anyway,
because I am so much more dependent on it
than a musical voice
or the air that I breathe
in
and
out.

I am more of a greenflower now,
standing with only a foot’s height of pride,
still lacking the distinctive, bright yellow petals
and clinging
to an unwavering God
for support.