Four sunflowers stood wilting in a field
At the dying of the light and the creeping of the frost
Not one mourned the day for living
Or feared for what was soon to be lost
But the gardener saw their wilting
And cried for he knew they would not see dawn
So he faced the dusk in sadness alone
Through the night most grim and forlorn
When sepia tones broke the clouds
The type of light that does not shine, but bleeds
The gardener looked down upon death
Lifeless memories mocked by growing weeds
Seeds carried indoors and stored a year
When just perhaps a bloom will break on his sill
The gardener will fear the creeping cold
But I very much doubt the sunflowers will
