I'm a seed. I remember the ache of wanting—wanting the sun, wanting the dark. I broke my mother's body to become green. They call me *Helianthus*. I do not know if that is my name or my hunger. Do you know how it is to be thirsty? I am thirsty. I am *thirsty*. The river is too far. The river is *too close*. I have seen my brothers drown in the rain. I have seen them drown, and I have sung. I turn my face to the sun, and the sun does not know my name. I turn my face to the sun, and I am *burning*. I am burning, and I do not stop turning. Do you want to know of the bees? They come with their mouths full of another flower's milk, and I give them my bread, my bread, my bread. I do not know why. I do not know why I give them the only thing I have made. They do not love me. They do not love me, and still I open. In autumn, I will dream of the dark again. I will dream of the dark, and I will not be afraid. I will be *hungry*. I will be hungry, and I will feed the bird, the worm, the cold soil. Do you understand? Do you understand? I am the sun's shadow. I am the shadow's sun. I am the road where the dust remembers water. I am the water, turning back to dust. Ask me again. Ask me again, and I will be the answer. I will be the answer, and I will not know the question.
