Like the sunflowers in our side yard, I want to face the morning sun
without a blink, not shrinking in the wide mouth of a gun.
I want to drink the golden air when the music has begun,
plucking out my yellow fingers slowly, one by one
from this branch that was a withered worm when the dry spell had been spun,
from these fists that will be faces by the time the song is done.
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