In Memory of Our Little Sunflower

The roar of the flaming gas in the air
burned eight strands of my dark hair,
just as the number of brown petals still
left hanging on the dying flower on the window sill.

The sunflower seeds I held tight in my hand
(what we desperately tried to plant)
took me one more wistful month than to be
the part-time mother of our child in me.

If one single petal fell off each month,
there would have been eight more months
to anticipate the only antidote for
both our fragmented hearts at war.

I once had carried in me a fire torch as our light
to shine through our darkest path of fright,
but by mistake, we ended up setting fire
to the flower that grew on a pot of mire.