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Posts Tagged ‘flower’

 

 

 

You think it’s so much better to be petal,

pink flower, the perfumed bloom that lures

 

the bee. You with your flutter and blush.

Not all of us can be soft. Not all of us

 

can be beauty, and you have that role

all wrapped up. You with your tender buds,

 

your loveliness splayed. But I was not

made that way. Was made prick. Was

 

made barbed. Was made snappish

and piercing and sharp. Was made

 

fierce. Was made lance. Was made

to take no chances with survival.

 

There is glory in defense. Everything

that touches me remembers. I’m the one

 

that defines the scene. How would you know

your beauty without me?

 

 

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snapdragon in the rose bed

thriving and in full bloom—

pulling it anyway

 

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Kindness

Consider the tulip,
how it rises every spring
out of the same soil,
which is, of course,
not at all the same soil,
but new. How long ago
someone’s hands planted a bulb
and gave to this place
a living scrap of beauty.

Consider the six red petals,
the yellow at the center,
the soft green rubber of the stem,
how it bows to the world. How,
the longer we sit beside it,
the more we bow to it.

It is something like kindness,
is it not? The way someone plants
in you a bit of beauty—a kind word,
perhaps, or a touch, the gift
of their time or their smile.
And years later, in the soil that is you,
it emerges again, pushing aside
the dead leaves, insisting on beauty,
a celebration of the one who planted it,
the one who perceives it, and
the fertile place where it has grown.

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When Georgia painted the petunia,

she knew that to make busy people stop

in surprise and consider petunia,

 

she needed to make it large—

and she did—enormous petunias

revealed, unfolding along the wall—

 

and there the busy people saw

the intimate petals of women,

when all Georgia wanted to show them

 

was flower, the essence of flower,

the beauty of flower, the pure

purpled splendor of flower—

 

how soft, how sensual, how

wholly day stopping

a single flower can be.

 

 

to see the artwork, visit:

https://www.okeeffemuseum.org/store/products/posters/flowers/petunia-no-2-1924/

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empty space

at the dinner table—

a flower without its petals

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Innocent Bystander

Stirring inside the barely
open flower, the bee
dances his legs
in the golden
pollen, his whole
body trembles against
the core until he is wading
in gold, he is covered,
he glitters and I
become fully
flower.

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adios map
from now on I travel
in

flower to flower—
so much honey here I turn
it into work

why are you surprised
I’m naked? I don’t know why
you’re not

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