Flowers


You were never going to see me
Among all the other flowers,
Watching idle as the strangers
Daily passed me by.

I am not unlike my sisters,
Neither am I just like them;
We are gathered as a body
Staring at the sky.

If you deign to come in closer
And, for once, get on your knees,
You might see my red is different—
Only by a hue—

Maybe if you bowed your head
And plucked me from the ground,
You could press me in a book,
A love poem for you.

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“Come Sleep.”


The Sun is setting;
Roots of trees
Creep ‘round my
Tired bones.

All the Nymphs have
Bowed their heads—
The Daisy and
The Rose.

Calling me,
They ask for help—
Or ask for me
To come

With them to Sleep
Until the spring,
For they and I
Are one.

Lament


Leaves will change
From green to gold,
Like they do every year—

But I cannot
Watch them crisp
Without shedding a tear.

The cricket-chorus
Will be gone,
Our bushes will be still.

When frost sets in,
Ice-cold like death,
I will absorb the chill.

Even lovely things
Need sleep
To flourish in the day.

Flowers bow
Their graceful heads,
And I wish they would stay.

Wood of Unrest


Stars above flash in their envy;
The Stream below’s crying out loud.
Even the Lady Moon turns away,
Concealing her face in a shroud.

A body of crimson Trees shiver.
Cricket-song rises, protest!
An ancient Wood full of enchantment
Knows no spell to give it rest.

Are these the days of Beginning–
Or is it the start of the End?
We could not comprehend the green,
But let us now pretend.

Why would a Firefly flicker,
Or a Vining-plant tangle in plight?
Were they not made in perfection?
Wouldn’t their burden be light?

What has a Flower to pine for?
What makes Stars fall from above?
Perhaps the answer is simple:
In their beauty, they want Love.

Cricketwaltz


Crickets have a preference for
The bush outside my door.
They’ve gathered there to make a song
I’ve never heard before.

If the stars had voices,
I would think they’d sound the same—
All abuzz with energy,
A summer night untame.

Wait! here come the fireflies.
And look at how they dance!
Choreographed perfectly,
A fairytale romance.

Now the breeze is picking up,
As if to harmonize.
It purifies the tune and sends it,
Perfect, to the skies.

If you go to sleep tonight,
You’ll miss the cricket-chants.
They only come this time of year.
Go outside and dance.

The Golden Hour


Have you felt the chill of fall?
It’s come this way before.
See! it gathers over hills.
September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts
With eighty-degree days,
‘Til there comes October-land,
And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads
And trees turn shades of gold.
Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:
This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills
And seeks a warming hearth.
The golden hour has returned
To our part of the earth.

Life & Flowers


I stepped out today to find all of my flowers had bloomed.

Gathering some into a vase, I realized why it’s important to wait for certain things—and to appreciate what’s going on during the wait, even in moments when it seems no change is happening.

The flowers are stunning, aren’t they? If I had rushed them, if I had not waited out the long hot summer, if I had not endured August weeks of dryness during which no flowers grew—I would not have gathered so many colors today.

The cliche is true: the best things are worth the wait, every moment of it.

The Old, Grieving Garden


Wildflowers spring to life where they will
As, above, the sun sets on my sorrow.
I didn’t think that I had tears to cry still.
This sadness will last well into the morrow.
The flashes of blue and dots of white
Dancing in patches of summer dirt
Nod sympathetically to my plight,
As if they could comprehend my hurt.
A day will soon come to bid them farewell
When they bow their heads in graceful death;
Not yet!—I have secrets yet to tell,
But cannot catch my breath.
Butterfly, flit from leaf to leaf,
Sending my message to heaven’s door.
Meanwhile, I’ll make peace with my grief,
Here on the cold stone floor.

The Grudge


What am I going to do when the season ends and my flowers begin to die?

How will I cope when I go outside in the morning and, instead of seeing a new darling has bloomed, I find the stalks becoming dry and crinkly—these gentle plants that brought butterflies and bees and joy to my days?

I have a grudge against death and its habit of taking things. I know it’s unreasonable and part of me believes death is not the end. But usually all I feel is fear that the end will come.

Now it’s a flower, later a loved one. Eventually, it will be all of us. Let’s hope we inspire people to plant new flowers in the years to come.