I drove by a sunflower field today, covered in the snow.
If I hadn’t passed the same field, blooming in its glory during the past two summers, I would never have known that those dead stalks in the frozen ice once held gorgeous blooms of marigold.
I drove by a sunflower field today, and wondered if I am not so different.
In a way, it gave me hope. Hope that even the winter holds nothing to the promise of the spring. That extreme goodness is awaiting in another season.
I drove by a sunflower field today, and remembered that he once compared me to a sunflower.
And it struck me that he fell in love with my flowers and not my roots.
And when the winter came, he didn’t know what to do.
I drove by a sunflower field today. And while my favorite color may appear in those wild blooms, I decided I am not like them.
Because I don’t want to wait another year for my blooming to begin. And I won’t let the cold winter months continue to steal my warmth from me.
No, I am not like a sunflower.
I am not a seasonal joy that is only to be loved during the warmer, sweeter months. I am not so shallow to let my depths be bitten by one harsh frost.
I am not a sunflower. I’m not that small.