Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘flower’

One Hopeful

 

 

 

late-blooming lilac—

perhaps we, too, have something

marvelous about to flourish

Read Full Post »

IMG_5939

 

 

It looked dead, the orchid.

After long extravagant glory,

the blossoms dropped quickly,

one by one. The stem shriveled,

dried. Every time I looked at it,

all I saw was what wasn’t there.

People said it would reset.

They said it needed rest,

a little bit of extra care.

But eight months later,

the plant still looked dead.

 

There are times we lose hope.

Times when our eyes tells us

we’re fools to believe beyond

what we see here now.

But from what seemed

like nothing, a long dark stem

appeared, lined with buds.

And what a fool I was to doubt,

to let the eyes lie to me.

Already they’ve remembered how to see

what will be. Already they remember

how to see the beauty

of exactly what is here.

 

 

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

The Big Vase

 

 

 

What is friendship but the ground beneath

the melting snow, the earth that is present

regardless of drift or grass or garden or wasteland.

A friendship is a flower that thrives

whether it is watered or not.

 

It is the flame that cooks the soup and does not ask

to be included on the menu as an ingredient.

And it burns through months, through decades,

burns, long after one might have thought the fuel

would have run out.

 

It would seem like a miracle, the way true friendship

survives, except it’s so commonplace—

the persistent warmth, the inextinguishable glow.

 

And if friends are torn apart—perhaps by years,

perhaps by circumstance—what is friendship then

but an enormous vase with a wide enough mouth

to hold those separate stems over space, over time,

and still call them a bouquet.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

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.

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

sitting with flowers in the garden

until I am

flower in the garden

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

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.

Read Full Post »

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.

 

 

Read Full Post »

 

 

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.

 

Read Full Post »

 

 

 

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?

 

 

Read Full Post »

 

snapdragon in the rose bed

thriving and in full bloom—

pulling it anyway

 

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: