HAYDEN AND THE SUNFLOWERS

There were eight of them, and it seemed six or seven were taking a good root and beginning to thrive. He had traded a piece of Chaga mushroom from a Silver Birch for the sunflowers. He thought the other barterer, a nice man with the same choice of shoes for some reason, had mentioned that they were not regular sunflowers but the darker ones, with more textured and deeply wrought hues and designs. Hayden was happy at the thought of these different sunflowers, these things that were a first not much more than seedlings, but might one day, with the proper care, grow tall and proud, succinct and curtly yes, but a little wild, yes wild enough. He planted them in the front, near the sun itself, but not close enough to the wall for support. He could always move them. They were small enough yet, about a foot high. But instead, for the time being, he put a piece of bric-a-brac kitsch but at least wooden small fence that he had found somewhere and painted a dark and wonderful blue color. And now the rain, and possibly a tornado he heard rumor of. Some of the flowers were falling a bit over. He would have to get another support for the other side. Staring at them, trying to figure out the problem, the rain crashing down, - he resolved to find such a support first chance at a store. Then he felt better, for he wanted to see the sunflowers succeed. One day, if all went well, they would have strong stems, and blossom flowers towards the sun. He had seen the large flowers in other places, and always admiring them, hoped one day he could be the steward of such wonderful creations. Maybe a day would come yet, where he would sit or stand with the flowers. It would be a clear sky but with a couple puff-clouds for good measure. And then, - things would be okay. The world can be a difficult place as anyone knows. But there were good things to guard against it. There was the beloved and the progeny also Literature. Sweaters. Cargo pants. Shells, fauna and flora, wooden tables, streams, pebbles, stones, feral shrubs, berries black and blue and red and mixed. Don't forget tales read, of the sea, and there was Joseph Conrad to always rely on, a most trusted uncle. The Virgin Mary, Jesus, the Holy Family, Saints. Osho. There was the memory of plum trees in September that lived by black iron gates. Cats. Fish. Estuaries and inlets and bays and quays. There was Pompano,- the sand and the ocean and the inland- Pompano that happened and that nobody could ever take away. And who is to know what the future could bring? A few people had made wonderful music, and to think of all the bookshelves, all the dogs, especially mutts, and the middle of nighttimes before and after when mystical knowledge or some kind of gnosis seems to present itself. One sometimes can feel, as Baudelaire said it, ‘the wind of the wing of madness’ but Hayden thought of the opposite and when he searched he knew that one could also feel what he himself denoted to be at least ‘the gift of the grace of God’s whisper.’ If Providence would have it, the sunflowers would bloom. If not, then not. He thought a silly thought, from Baudelaire, the first person perhaps associated with vignettes, - Baudelaire, who he had not even really read, - but knew the title of the book Flowers of Evil, and then he thought, - bloom or no bloom, bloom or no bloom, She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not, she loves…And who is to know? And how? And when? And why? And where? The rain came in the meantime more pronounced, marrying the panes and the glass, the stems and dirt and even and unfortunately a good part of the heart. It came marrying in fact the whole world sooner or later.

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