Those midnight searches
for slugs, my torch to spot and swat
most away, yet leaving some

on the single exenterated stalk
clearly and cleanly loved to its diminishing:
this utilitarian reserve

that saved remaining and
tall ones with buds ready to open as suns.
You had sent

Vanilla Ice, opened as a
bouquet florists would collate into occasions.
And you sent

Sungold, the iconic one
we stopped to watch in French fields years
ago. You sent

Red Sun, its darkness
radiant as a burst of beauty’s randomness.
Also – surprise extra – you sent

Teddy Bear, a fluff-ball of yellow,
and that’s the inventory of Helianthus done.
So I sent you

pictures of them all in a row,
their constellation against a backdrop of green
where you once played,

and tonight’s searches
will be more of this routine for sending back
as far as the continuing.