Near my house lies a vacant plot of land belonging to my next-door neighbor. He once told me that this land is a dowry for his youngest child. When the boy grows up, completes his studies, and returns home to build his career, he and his wife will hand over ownership to their son.
Over a decade ago, he drove down to Ham Rong Mountain and cut a few branches of wild sunflowers to plant there. When I asked why he didn’t plant vegetables or fruit trees, he grinned mischievously: “I plant wild sunflowers because they’re easy to care for. Green leaves in the rainy season, golden blooms in the dry—just imagining it, I can already picture the unique beauty of a small street corner. Besides, I’m a nature lover, passionate about flowers, especially wild sunflowers.”
Since then, that patch of land has been ablaze with the colors of wild sunflowers. In the rainy season, the plants call to each other in vibrant green, from the first tender shoots to the moment they are saturated with the hues of the sky and clouds—so green it seems they’ve never known any other color. On dry season days, when the fragrant sunlight bathes the rooftops in gold, mingling with the first chill of early winter, the wild sunflowers burst forth in a new shade—the color of sunlight. Perhaps that’s why they’re called the flowers that herald the sun, the flowers that announce winter.
The color of these flowers is truly unique. It’s still yellow, but at different times, with different moods, this wildflower sings its own distinct notes of color.
Here is a gentle, dreamy yellow blending with the cool morning mist. There, a bright yellow greeting the first rays of dawn, a dazzling gold at noon, a wistful yellow in the late afternoon. And in the quiet night, under the soft moonlight, the wild sunflowers glow with an enchanting, passionate yellow. I can’t recall how many times I’ve stood silently, gazing at wild sunflowers in the night, just like that.
Yesterday morning, leisurely strolling through the city, I walked with memories of seasons of flowers. As my motorbike passed Nguyen Trung Truc Street, my heart suddenly skipped a beat at the sight of a patch of wild sunflowers swaying in the wind. On the tallest branches, the yellow of the flowers peeked through. I quickly pulled over to the roadside, standing to admire the flowers in the sunlight, beneath the clear blue sky.
And so, another wild sunflower season, another beautiful time, is returning to my Gia Lai highlands. Suddenly, I remembered verses I once wrote: “I wish for a morning by the street/wild sunflowers cradling dreamy dew/like a realm of longing, I dream/your silhouette blending with the flowers.”
I recall those early mornings, wandering the small slope beside my house, dew still clinging to my shoulders, the scent of damp earth and fresh grass filling my breath. Wild sunflowers stood on both sides of the road, nodding as if greeting an old friend. Instantly, my heart felt at peace. I felt I owed the flowers a thank you, for amid the hustle and bustle of life, they still bloom, giving themselves fully to the earth and sky. That’s why, in my most uncertain, most surrendered moments, there are always flowers to comfort and soothe me, without a word of complaint. To me, wild sunflowers are the purest form of affection, like dewdrops on the shirt of youth, like the days I left Hanoi, choosing and loving this land.
I remember my first days setting foot in Ia Gri. The red dirt road was lined with wild sunflowers on both sides. Barefoot children in T-shirts laughed under the sun. Looking back now, I realize the most beautiful memories aren’t far away—they’re in the clear eyes of those children in that golden season.
This wild sunflower season, the town is still as small as ever, only people’s hearts seem to carry more uncertainty. Each flower season, I ask myself: “Will I still be able to see the wild sunflowers bloom like this next year?” A question that seems idle, but is in fact sincere. Because of age, because of life’s struggles, because of all the worries, sometimes we forget to pause and admire a field of flowers in our minds.
This afternoon, I suddenly saw wild sunflowers sparkling in the wind. Each petal like a shard of late sunlight, holding onto a bit of warmth for passersby. I suddenly wanted to walk toward the hills of flowers, to hear the grass sing, to feel the scent of sunlight melting into my hair. Sometimes, just standing quietly in a patch of wild sunflowers is enough to remind me that I am still alive, still loving, still moved by the fragile yet proud beauty of nature.
As I write these lines, my phone lights up with a message from a friend in Hung Yen: “It’s wild sunflower season, isn’t it? Have you managed a scouting trip to Chu Dang Ya yet? This season, I won’t miss our date again...” This promise has followed us through many flower seasons. I know, in that message, there’s an unspoken affection. Like me, he waits year after year, replying in the slanting sunset through my window: “The wild sunflowers are blooming. The Central Highlands sky is as radiant as a golden dream in the cold season.”
Wild sunflower season has arrived. The red earth is gentle in its familiar golden hue. On every hillside, every slope, the flowers bloom as naturally as the smile of a highland girl. And I, once again, gather all my musings and uncertainties to write another page in an unfinished memory. Because somewhere along these far-flung roads, just recalling a patch of wild sunflowers swaying in the wind, I know I still have a place to return to.