Scribbling notes on my “great works”
In the quiet of the morning
Petals drop
At the perfect moment
No intention whatsoever
Onto the island of white stone
Selected with our architects
Just as flowers were selected
At Trader Joes
And appreciated by us
Arranged in a vase
And snipped and watered
All so intentional
I’m all for setting intention
Or thought I was
But the flower blooms
And dies quietly
Just because
I put the petals
Beneath the metal
Of the compost bin
In my kitchen that makes
Me feel less like I sin
And to the garden
I later take all the scraps
And leave them to rot
And then later disperse
Beneath the tomatoes
And think about sauce
Rather than about how lost
And at sea I am when
I start to think
Or pour myself a special drink
When ants upon decomposed granite
Have long ruled me
And my planet
Where the flower’s power knows no hour
{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }
You had me at peonies.
I was just telling Jana that I am scared of poetry, that I find it hard to understand what is going on, what the message is, if there even is a message. But this I get. This is me too:
“And think about sauce
Rather than about how lost
And at sea I am when
I start to think”
May all dying flowers inspire such meditation.
I love that you find solace in your compost bin!! I remember one spring, my sister’s boyfriend brought over his new golden lab puppy. The puppy was most adorable–until he beheaded every one of my mother’s blooming peonies!
I appreciate the precision of your poetry — the ability to boil that thick sauce of life right down to the essence of things. A brilliant “reduction” that is, of course, a creative expansion. Bravo!
I love this:
I’m all for setting intention
Or thought I was
But the flower blooms
And dies quietly
I think about all the “noise” we live with now, the desire (or necessity?) to brand ourselves, often so we can simply survive, and how out of touch we are with our own beauty, our place in the grander (quieter) scheme, the acceptance of our blooming and then dying – whatever our intentions.
Like Wolfie, these lines also touched me,
I’m all for setting intention
Or Thought I was
But the flower blooms
And dies quietly.
I feel the grace of these words. And the aftertaste of sadness.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
Here’s to the power of that flower’s hour.
You are one angel-headed hipster.
The magic of ants and peonies. I hate ants. But peonies are my favorite flower and they must have those ants to help them open. I find poetry simply in this lovely combination even if it makes me cringe a little. Especially then.
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