My Cardboard Balcony

A Seed Planted in August by Belinda Roddie A seed planted in August grew to be a huge sunflower until autumn ripped all its grandiose petals from its face and left it shaved of beauty while the leaves in all their colors took its place. My dear daughter, who had taken great care to make that flaxen darling blossom in tough soil and shine like gold amid a small, modest garden, was disappointed to see how it shriveled and wilted, stooped as if with age. I told her when summer came around again, she could use a fallen seed from the ground to plant it right where the last one stood, so it could get the perfect dose of sun.

Inside the dank cathedral, two children prayed. In the courtyard along the sinister turrets, a gardener planted roses. Beneath his feet in the basement, a ceremony was starting. The vicar was dressed in blacks and reds. The deacons all in whites. They would wear the dark stains of those who felt the dagger in the colossal man's hands.