Skip to main content

Sweet Columbine

Some words cling to us like ivy,
While others slip, drip, fall;
I didn’t know you were called
Aquilegia caerulea, sweet Columbine.

But I knew you looked like a star
Holding a flower with a heavy heart,
A chest that drooped in the dusklight
On a soft evening in June.

Sometimes we forget “you”
And think of the Forget-Me-Nots,
Growing in our own arrogance -
Our own, our own want. What did you want?

You wanted to live like
Chrysanthemums in bloom
As the trees shook off
Their green coats and became butterflies.

You wanted to dangle
With the Spanish moss and forget yourself.
Become part of the scene of
The world and blend.

But I wouldn’t let you fade.
You were the star holding a flower,
And each time your petals fell
I wanted to be the water, the sun, the soil

That made you lift your drooping eyes
And spread your leaves like fan palm.
I wanted to put you in a vase
And carry you to see the sugar pine

Or the sea oats on the breezy shore.
It’s possible I’m forgetting some words,
Words I didn’t need to say, and said,
Words like “adventure” and “living.”

Words you weren’t having. You wanted to keep growing
In the poor soil, alive, but not living to see
The coast. You said the aspens
Were an ocean of gold and you felt the waves

Crash through you with each August wind.
I didn’t know you were called
Aquilegia caerulea, sweet Columbine,
But I’ll forget you not.

--

Mad Word List 8.28.18

Ivy
Aquilegia caerulea
Columbine
Fan palm
Moss
Chrysanthemum
Sugar pine

--

I enjoy storytelling in poetry.

I'm also being a little more selective with my word list. I was given a few more official plant names for this one and other words that just didn't fit where I wanted to go with this. Part of being a poet is learning to discern how the outside world impacts your work and after acknowledging that impact, choosing how much that influence commands the direction of your work.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Yins and Yangs

Just this minute, the white-tailed Magpies are finding themselves In the verdant glades of the Rockies, As the aspens, fresh green, quake in the wind. They know nothing of Jon Snow, Or the window on the second floor Where I look out, remembering, Longing for apricity, the sun on my face. But the gloam is settling in, And the magpies will soon be seeking Windows of their own To look out of. And I think the shadows on my page Are cast like dark rainbows - made of light And things in the way. Awe-inspiring shapes I couldn't see in the dark. Is it best to be inside or Outside? Or can I be moved To appreciate this Pedulumic cycle - To be tossed, fro and to, Between creation and decay, Between sunrise and Sunset? Do you feel the loam in your hands, How rich it is when you dig deeper? Do you admire how perfectly The lilac blossom, with its powerful redolence, Seeks your attention as if to say, "Stay outside for a while." As my colleague yamm...

Bonus Poem: Look Up!

Looking down, I read the priceless pages, Someone else, sweetly, precisely, Had written their drinkable life on. And I drank in the appreciation Of her words, one sentence at a time, A good, fresh white. Sensational, the clouds were Pouring in, filling my cup,  Easing in, with a soft voice that said, "Look up!" My eyes glanced, only peeking At first, toward the sky. Those rain-bringers harnessing My irises with glee. And as if it had been there All along, the whole long while, A sparrow drifted into the Watercolor before me, soaring. It glided on the currents That were my own world, too. And we shared the view, Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now. And then the wind found itself Playing in the cottonwood's hair. And I smiled, thinking About how good it probably felt, Those wind-fingers, sifting through. 

Wisteria Vines

Sometimes I have to remember How gently the wisteria trees Sway in a sunshower. How the gossamers built with patience Must sometimes be built again, And again, and again without complaint. I have to listen for the laughter The one you'd almost miss if you were Too worried about the symmetry of the seams On the dress your mother sewed And you re-sowed. “Be at ease.” That lithe voice whispered, smiling. I imagine there on the front porch A child with golden hair and Sapphire eyes, planting a huge basium On the family pup’s nose, and they both Turn shyly and grin at my future. “Mommy, let's play,” she says, and I know it's everything. Everything I ever wanted. To play. To delight In words dancing on pages and Make the dirt at my feet into ballrooms. “It's not a tempest, my dear, only A little rain, swaying the wisteria Blooms.” My mother again holds my hand. The hand that would one day Write about what howl...