Driving to work each day I still watch
for the bent, dark skinned man
I saw last summer
behind a chain link fence
on Agua Fria Street, in the desolate
dirt square where he tended nine
maybe ten sunflowers.
Sometimes he stood staring
at the sky with a far away look
but one day I saw him, his face reaching
up into a round yellow crown
bending over him on its thick stalk,
the weight of blooming
too much to hold.
It was a private conversation
but I slowed the car and watched
from a short distance.
The plant twice as tall as he,
the round golden disk
of light and spiraling
seed hanging heavy,
his whole body opened
to that communion.
I was late for work then
—how many times
that day my head fell back
and I looked up, longing
for such a face of light.
