Turn To Sun

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

This early morning
he passes from Mississippi headwater
out of woodland and wetland
across the Red River onto North Dakota
—rolling plain of North Dakota—
a perfect expanse (said Buckminster Fuller)
a perfect expanse on which to feel oneself
spin toward the sun at early light
and spin away at late light.
He likes that it bothered Fuller
when people speak "sunrise"
—for the sun does not rise—
and "sunset"
—for the sun does not set.
It is we on our planet who spin from the sun:

turn from the sun each evening
turn to the sun each morning.
Today,
he has convinced himself; he does sense it
just as Fuller said he would.
He drives on, smug with satisfaction,
hypnotized, rolling northeast to southwest.

Turn To Sun 

Bob Komives

until
he startles from his meditation.
They are looking at him—
bronze little faces
fringed in yellow bonnet-and-bib.
Sunflowers by the thousands, millions,
sunflowers looking at him.
He ignores the obvious truth:
they look to the sun behind him.
To be twice smug he puts his Spanish vocabulary to work:
"girasol" "turn to sun"
Indeed, better words
for both “sunrise” and  “sunflower.”
Installed in his driver’s seat, he is philosopher royal to the northern great plain.
Throngs of sunflowers
crowd in for his morning audience.
Narcissistic pleasure.

until
he startles from his meditation.
They will not look at him beyond morning.
(He cannot drive faster than earth spins)

So as not to be dethroned,
he abdicates to take more pleasure
in the seeing than the being seen.
Find a sunflower at each road bend—
one among the many,
one to appreciate for her skill and beauty.
“Good Day,” nods he,
“Good Day,” nods she,
For, indeed, it is!

now west, then south; west and south again,
toward where young waters flow
onto a place among many
where old plain both begins and ends.
Now, on minor highway,
through well-kept town,
past well-kept cemetery,
(too large for its few occupants)
past silo and farm,
through deep carpet of sunflowers
and his chosen beauties.

Each earns—as true beauty earns—
his lingering gaze
as a breeze inspires her sensual sway.

until,
for one,
he slows, pulls over, stops,
lingers in flirtation.
Now more golden than yellow,
she offers her profile.
.
He hears words,
but which of them whispered?
 “Good day,
smug friend,
Good day.” For, indeed, it is!

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2013 :: Turn to Sun :: 1305