I don’t want to be given sunflowers,
Nor fields upon myriad fields
Of daffodil derivatives.
I don’t want to pluck one
And compare it superficially
To yet another faded equivalent.
If I did, I’d stare
At the overtly repeating floral patterns,
Laden on the threadbare curtains
Of my grandparents’ kitchen window—
Which I know are older than me.

I want something fresher.
Unfurling like a mainsail’s youthful expression,
I want to hurl those curtains wide, no—
Rip them from their pole, clean off
And see what else this world has to offer.

I want more than just a whisper here,
An echo...