It seems like it’s been forever since I’ve been at work, not ten days. I desperately don’t want to go back tomorrow, but alas, that is how it goes… I worry about what’s waiting for me when I get back, but not enough to check my email in advance. Must milk this last night for all its worth! (Side note: is it “it’s worth” or “its worth“, in this case? It could go either way, grammatically…)
Gladiolas are my mother’s favorite flower, and I think her frequent cries of, “Oh, gladiolas!” on a birthday/Mother’s Day morning are why it was one of the first uncommon flower names I knew. Most kids grow up knowing roses, daisies, dandelions; I think gladiolas are a pretty rare one. DVerse wanted a summer poem, so this was what happened… in contrast to the one I had to drag kicking and screaming out of my right-brain yesterday, this one spilled out rather easily. O, fickle muse! (And I could have written about honeysuckle too, as a floral-summer-thing, but I’ve already done that before.)
Leo wanes: and then the sunsets are possessed.
Their last scraps smolder in the corners of twilight,
throw the bushes into sharp relief. Everything
peeks off the edge of the cliff. At the bottom
there is the lengthening night and sap slowing
in the vein. A heart, being fiery, knows what the mind
will not: the gradient of time, the head grown heavy,
shaking its crisp leaves. Some part of us
always clings desperately to the driftwood,
submerging its flames with a final song. If that feeling
could be said to have a smell, I suspect these:
my mother’s vase full of sword-lilies, spears of them
from a birthday, burst with pale pink stars-and-stars.
This scent: the harpstring note at the uppermost
register of smell, whittled out of wet marble, and, like
a mother, always waiting nearby, steady as nightfall.