Medicine! children say,

or mint or spice or

the tin of turpentine

in the garage. O cousin

to the sunflower,

your summer death

deceives us when

your narrow leaves crumble

in our hands, our palms

sticky with your scent,

the smell of California

for a child like me who

wandered creek beds

with a Ball jar, on lookout

for the quick silver

of minnows and tadpoles.

Then and now,

like a sharp hum,

you fill my head when the rains

set in and the dawn fog

calls to you. Overnight

it seems,

gray softens to green,

the silky easy handful

of home.