Have Flowers in Poems Lost Their Meaning?
Have Flowers in Poems Lost Their Meaning?
When I was a child I’d pick flowers,
in a field next to our house, and I
would take them home to my mother
in the sunlight of the summer,
casting shadows over fall,
but the flowers would never
make it to her. I’d run their
heads against fences, and smash
out their yellow’s on my chin
and cheeks. Her anger
did not deserve flowers,
but I still wished for kindness.
Then in the fall, where warm winds
turn cool and I was still bringing
flowers home to anger, that I did
not understand for so long, desperate
and emotionally delirious I
tried to calm fury with flowers,
to silence insults with care,
to talk gentle to thunderstorms,
but that’s not the way of the wind,
when torrents have drown all
down to mud.
At the end of winter, I saw you
walking through the field,
looking at the destruction,
and I don’t care if flowers
have lost all their meaning in poetry,
I don’t care if all the flowers I have ever
given have not survived the storms,
so there are no roses here, or daisies,
and dandelions or sunflowers. I
see you and your flowers to me
are joy and kindness, and I’m laughing,
looking at these tiny sprouts of green
growing from this planter,
I’m keeping near to me, and being
quiet and gentle as a light summer rain.