I live, write, and teach in Appleton, Wisconsin—about 35 miles south of the "frozen tundra." I am fascinated by good paper, poetry and the way ink moves forward on the blank page and words trail behind like a snake shedding its skin. Winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook contest, I am the author of the collection A Theory of Lipstick (Main Street Rag: 2013) and seven chapbooks of poetry. Widely published (poetry, reviews and interviews), I was awarded a Pushcart Prize in 2011. www.karlahuston.com
From my window, I can’t see
your leafy collar; your yellow head
is turned away. Only weeks ago
I plucked you from the window box--
a split seed with unfolded leaves
like cupped hands. Now you’ve grown
six feet; now your stalk is coiled
with an errant bean vine.
Now I imagine Jack in this world,
looking up your tangled stem,
wondering how far he needs to go.
He can’t see your face either,
but he knows that nothing can stand alone.
Sunflower, see how you are held
by this vine, see how it loves you.
Your moon face turns with the light.
See how facing east
is the way to gold?
©2016 Karla Huston