Seven Sunflowers: a new poem by Jordan

The summer I planted seven sunflowers
I left them in a crooked row
In my backyard, like a fence overseeing
The differences between the sidewalk and dirt

It rained a great deal in June,
And three sunflowers were broken by the storms
Their thin shafts split apart before even
Reaching my knees

The sky opened again in July,
This time it wasn't a storm but a missile
Dropped from the pear tree above
That fell another helpless stalk

The August hail took the fifth,
And so the two flowers left in the dirt
Were left to reach skyward in contest
Side by side, two towers overseeing.

It wasn't until September,
When those two flowers extended overhead
That they started unfolding,
Their heads blinking for the first time

The first sunflower to bloom
Lived for one day before the neighborhood
Children smashed the stem and left
The head scattered on the sidewalk

One sunflower, the strongest
Who had made it since late May,
It stood alone, one tower overseeing
A killing field and a thoroughfare

The last sunflower died on the same day
The FBI raided the houses of war protesters
Searching for totems akin to terrorism
But their guns were drawn at the wrong neighbors

It was the third day of autumn,
And I stepped out in my backyard
Only to find the strongest of them all
Cut down at the knees, beheaded.