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

Post a Comment

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
Post a Comment
Read more

Bonus Poem: Peonies in a Paper Bag

Out of the earth, stems cut, And into the glass. A spectacle, a marvel, A reminder of the Outside, placed inside. They dazzled for days And then one by one They drooped, stooped over the Cold, round edge of the Vase, reaching for the door. And she said, "It's time, These must go. They might delight a few more Days, but no! Look at this Single one limping. They must Go." And into that brown bag They were buried, without ceremony Or song, amid napkins and other plastic Horribles. And that's how I found them. Heartbroken, Ruffled like goose feathers, Waiting to be taken out Again. To feel the air, Even if it would be among The dead and uncompostables, let their feathers Rest back into the earth They were clipped from. "Let us wilt in the place We call home," they said. And I just wanted to caress One - its soft, pink goose feathers - And tell it that it was the Most beautiful thing I had Seen all day. The most beautiful refuse,
Post a Comment
Read more

Leashed on the Edge of "I"

Do you ever wish you could view yourself As others see you? At a distance? That you might become one of the crowd Or the speck from the airplane? Or maybe you might become so close That you are nothing but locks of hair And the smell of Cabernet and black tea And a force in the night. I imagine you could even be mistaken For someone else. Could you mistake you For someone else? I think I could do it, Be you, or her, or him, or that dog over there Sniffing the fence, sorting out these Divisions. I didn't say I was I from the Beginning, but I wonder how we drag "I" Around like a stick, and chew a piece off Now and again. You were thrown the stick, And you fetched. But what if you could sniff Beyond the fence and be something more Or something less? Would you? Could we?
Post a Comment
Read more