Oh, seven-foot sunflowers, I remember when you were so strong. Your stems so thick and vibrant green. How you grew so tall I had to bind you to the garden gate with twine. Then a pink bungee cord. Then a purple one. Then strips of a flannel shirt I ripped apart one night when I drank too much wine.
Your blooms are brittle and dried-out now, sagging toward the earth and tangling with the rotting squash vine. I unwound your supports today, one by one. I dropped them in a bucket, to be stored in a forgotten corner of the garage, until next year when new seeds are planted and you rise and stretch to the sun again.