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Posts Tagged ‘flower’

 

 

 

Now dried and brown

the cinquefoil where once

bees danced in gold flowers—

 

recalibrating the heart

to find in brittle clusters

another invitation to dance.

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sitting with flowers in the garden

until I am

flower in the garden

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A flower in the field

is always changed by rain.

It is never indifferent

to sun. Even the slightest

of breezes will bend it,

will rearrange. An ant

walks through its center—

now so much more is possible.

It never pretends

to be unaffected by the world.

I have so much to learn

from the flowers of the field,

how they never turn their backs—

they don’t even have backs.

How they withstand hail

and flood and snow and chill

and still, they bloom,

they spill seeds, they

bring all the beauty they can.

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Budding

 

            (with thanks to Donnalee for the peony buds)

 

 

Sitting with the peony

whatever is red in me reddens

and whatever in me is fist

loosens its grip

and whatever was sorrow

finds no mirror

and whatever is grateful

becomes fragrant

and I don’t even think

to remember

it won’t last forever,

all I know is

inside,

sweet nectar.

 

 

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She wants to go see the bluebonnets, she says.

This is after she tells me they’ve said she has three months to live.

And I want to find her vast fields of bluebonnets,

acres and acres of white-tipped blue bloom.

And I want to send her more springs to see them in,

more days to live one day at a time. I want to remove

the pain in her belly, the pain that aggressively grows.

I want to make deals with the universe. Want to say no

to the way things are. I want to tell death to wait.

I want to tell life to find a way. I want to hug her

until she believes she’s beloved. I want to give her

the pen that will write every brave thing

that she’s been unable to say. There are days

when we feel how uncompromising it is, the truth.

How human we are. There are days when the bluebonnets

stretch as far as the eye can see. There are days

we know nothing is more important than going to see them,

a billion blue petals all nodding in the wind, teaching us to say yes.

 

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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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