harvesting sunflowers

We tease the black seeds
from their spiral nests
like little teeth,
the children's fingers nimbler
than mine. These smaller
circles recall
the first faller--the great
moon face, pie wide.
When it died
the thumb thick stem
green as a lime skin, grew
fingers--unfolded
new small blooms
palmsfull of darktipped seeds
compact in spirals
soldiers surrounded by double
ranks of petals bright
and soft as mango.
We cut the elder sister
off her stem, scraped
the red filaments,
unpacked the dark seeds
to keep, to plant, to toast
and eat; we cut
the first two sister faces
too, propped up in a glass
jar with water.
For a week there they reproached us,
then their bright petals
unpacked themselves
and dropped, puddled on the bare
table like yellow tears.
Just so,
once, I left for the evening
and returning, met my
littlest, her legs
curled beneath her, baby
face pressed to the wood
floor--she'd cried,
her father said, until
she fell asleep.