A Flower of Sun

The sunflower doesn't face the sun here. It becomes one — enormous, consuming nearly the whole sky, its dark center not empty but dense, textured, almost cosmic.

And inside that darkness, two figures. Close enough that their outlines nearly merge. Outlined in green, as though the plant itself is tracing them, claiming them. They are not standing in front of the flower. They are held inside it.

There is something the natural world offers that other shelters can't — not safety exactly, but belonging. The feeling of being contained by something that existed long before your particular grief, or joy, or need for another person.

This is a summer painting. But the warmth it holds is older than any single season.

Jolanta