The Bold and the Beautiful

rudbeckia bud

 

I view you with scorn.

Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.

Do you not feel it in your bones,

this Frost creeping, cadaverous

mongrel, seeking your flesh?

No one who knows what

Saskatchewan winter can accomplish

would proffer innocent bud,

sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.

Or do you know exactly what you offer?

Scorn spars with Pity,

until a third enters the ring –

Disbelief.

Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?

Death may just be the mother of

all necessary re-invention,

the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.

I see.

I know.

Tears trace my ruptures,

draining immature ideas,

congregating on your petals

where they christen you

Bold.

 

 

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When Strangers Ask

DSCN7056

 

She’s more than a morning coffee

drinker, more than her function as

office confidante, more yet than

the colour of her eyes or skin.

.

Birth stones and birth order and birth

marks are but petals to her rose,

characteristics folded deep,

convoluted lines and colours

which add or detract from beauty.

.

Shoe size and predisposition

to diabetes, scars hammered

in where wobbly knees met gravel,

violin lessons on rainy

afternoons, the desire to dance –

ruffled layers all, a goldfinch

singing from hidden willow perch.

 .

I see her there, can count petals,

classify by botanical

name – yet, in calculating sums,

have I arrived at her spirit?

.

Do I know where she goes at night

when skeletal remains escape

closeted fears, or of whom she

dreams when her conversation flags,

eyes traversing galaxies hung

somewhere behind my left shoulder?

.

Fingers cannot touch the places

she’s been, nor trace the subtle curves

where geological process

has altered her surface features.

.

I see her there, can count petals,

compare tints to a hardware store

strip, watch as they shift before

sun and shadow – and when strangers

ask if I know her, I say no.

 

Uncommon Sense

Keen-eyed surveyor of foliar domain,

Ears opened wide to hear summer’s refrain,

Breathing in scent after mid-morning rain –

Your uncommon sense is no act.

Allowing the breezes to gently caress,

Sensation’s vibrations cause you to confess

This feeling’s delicious on fuzzy-tongued crest –

Your uncommon sense is a fact!

Bent Out of Shape

That crick in your neck must have you bent out of shape.

Your stem is ajar.  Your leaves are agape;

Your efforts to get to the sun are intense.

Your contortions are monstrous, your twistings immense.

There’s something about your distortion I laud;

How hard have I purposed to reach up to God?

Beautiful Posy

Succulent tower, decadent flower,

Offering spectators spectacle rosy;

Heaven-scent bower, evident power,

Dying to showcase your beautiful posy.

*

This succulent species flowers gloriously – and the flowering rosette is destined to die out after the show, to make room for the next generation of growth.  A rather vivid micro-cosmic example of life, birth, and death…

Tiny Elfin Lady’s Slipper

Tiny elfin lady’s slipper

Left behind on midnight run;

Cinderella’s chimes are ringing,

She must flee  before they’re done!

Only dainty foot may find you,

Wicked sisters can’t fit in;

Tiny elfin lady’s slipper,

Cinderella’s foot

Will win!