After the Sun

The garden’s done, the show is through.

Sunflowers, once so gold and new,

now stand like sentinels, stark and bent,

their heavy heads, their power spent.

The vibrant yellow, long since gone,

just stiff, dark disks against the dawn.

They rattle dry, a whisper low,

of summer's fire, long ago.

Full of their seeds, a bitter store,

they cling to stalks, wanting no more.

Just brittle frames against the sky,

a quiet promise that things die.

But even in this fading grace,

a certain beauty finds its place.

A tired strength, a final stand,

before they crumble back to sand.