Over the past couple weeks, I’ve been watching our dwarf sunflowers get accolades from neighbors who want to say one nice thing about a yard they don’t understand. I suspect that these nameless neighbors probably have a lot of different comments on our yard for the other neighbors, none of which include how my longer grass and plentiful dandelions are a sweet opportunity to forget cleaning up after their dog’s business.

Recently I’ve been left wondering, why did all my beloved sunflower’s leaves go limp as a nylon fringe jacket? Embarrassed by the attention? Imposter syndrome? It’s me isn’t it?

Cut to: a violent downpour is blowing the pedals from my most majestic sunflowers and yet, and yet, and yet. The soaking deluge brings the entire plant back to vibrancy. Now, the little sunflowers are (almost) ready for their closeup, fresh green plumage framing rising suns.

Is this the spirit of nature at work? A sign to stop doubting everything we do? A reminder that nature writing has all the built in metaphor you’ll ever need. Maybe it’s a good time to pick up Ada Limón’s new editorial venture: You are Here: Poetry in the Natural World.

Our spring issue of micros features a similar movement between the quencher and that which must be quenched. Sometimes it’s the natural world, sometimes it’s our human condition. Elena Zhang stirs the minutiae three times and then Jorge López Llorente plants a drabble in hopes of germination. A micropoem from Mikaela Hagen sprouts. It’s fuzzy. As Jonathan Cardew takes us to the days end, three more Mel Sherrer micropoems push through our hungry, thirsty soil.

Hopefully,

JR Walsh
Online Editor
The Citron Review