inside its scented resume?
Do you think horticulturalists
may miss a bit of analysis?
Prune around a rosary,
contemplate a fleur-de-lis,
take a whiff of potpourri,
see there's more than we can see.
From when the lilacs reappear
to when chrysanthemums grow sear,
listen and let the violet volunteer--
"there's more to us than you can hear."
Plant magnolias on the boulevard,
hoe the rhododendrons around the yard,
look for poison foxglove or healthy goldenseal--
"there's more to us than you can feel."
Gather perfume from the spotted touch-me-not,
the Spanish jasmine and blue forget-me-not,
as the bloodroot, bleeding heart, and sumac tell,
"there's more to all of us than you can smell."
Hail the honeybee in his Holland hyacinth,
the hummingbird sipping in her nectar labyrinth,
willing to admit of the sepals they have traced--
there's more to them than the honey you can taste.
Christmas red poinsettias and mistletoe,
and Easter's pure white lilies know,
like Bhuddist lotus and orchid pink,
there's more to them than thieves may think.
Stem and pistil, stigma and style
hiding narratives all the while;
petal and pollen, bud and bloom
speak out loud--though silent as a tomb.
The tiger lily when uncontrolled
gossips silly with the merry marigold.
And everyday dainty daffodils rehearse
the mystic secrets of the universe.
Wild and perrennial, fern and frond,
with whom do they commonly correspond?
weed and garden, seed and sod,
ricochet radiograms from God.
Every blossom is a family even--
black-eyed Susan or purple Steven--
male and female, if not self-mated,
by the birds and the bees are pollinated.
From heather and petunia and sweet William
the winds blow a veritable emporium,
as little children flower seeds go on to become
gardenia, begonia and geranium.
Fields full of poppies and tulips too
sing the seasons' life-death song anew
and in the dawn's breeze genuflect
to all that we of little faith neglect.
Behold all the flowers around the earth
flow up together to heaven's girth--
from buttercup and beautybush to goldenrod--
to grow a majestic robe for God.
If a diamond's hidden, a dandelion's in view,
if diamonds are forever, morning glories are new;
see the dead diamond, its secrets unfold,
while the honeysuckle's stories live untold.
Are we like columbines, our features in view
with real hidden selves inside more true?
Unlike the diamonds that someday disappear,
we will, like the sunflowers, return every year.
If we, like a daisy, remain faithful to
our great Creator and the inner self so true,
then our life, like the larkspurs' brief blossoming,
will be resurrected in a glorious spring.
As forsythia reveal their golden-bell career,
can we unlock our inner selves as clear?
Does the bird-of-paradise give a gentle hint to us
of the need to remember our final terminus?
Once I prayed for St. Therese the Little Flower to bring
as a favor some roses in a melancholy spring;
they appeared as if by magic everywhere I turned
for St. Therese delivers whenever asked, I learned.
The last that arrived as if in a mirage
a dozen giant roses on a bush by the garage;
I picked the largest rose for the mantleplace
to enjoy a while longer in big green vase.
Finally I tested her with a hopeful prayer
to show me some rose petals falling through the air,
and at midnight so gently like evening snows
there floated to my feet half the petals on that rose.
If a zinnia's secrets are mostly inside,
can Christ in the Eucharist also hide?
If God can put so much in a crocus bed,
can He secret Himself in a wafer of bread?
Why are there two hundred fifty thousand kinds?
Why were two-thirds of plants and vines
created as flowers, every color that's seen
in a multi-varied rainbow breaking up the green?
For parades and arrangements, festivals and floats,
for landscaping and leis, dresses, shirts and coats,
for corsages and still life, swains and cavaliers,
fragrances and photos, songs and sonneteers.
For seasoning or a hobby, gardening or a wreath,
or maybe just a lovely rose for Carmen in her teeth;
for holidays and seasons, Valentines and prom,
for secretaries, lovers, religious feasts and mom.
We need them for the wedding, altar, bride and nave,
they salve our grief at funerals and rest upon the grave;
in botanical city gardens and nurseries they are bred,
living in the greenhouse or cut and dried and dead.
We pick a favorite flower for nation, state and self,
for table decoration or just to set upon the shelf;
they symbolize expressions, emotions or respect,
we give them in remembrance or just for an effect.
We hardly know they're coming from such a tiny seed,
and some we kill or just ignore and treat them like a weed;
yet they bring us joy and beauty, the best that we can see,
so we often give to those we love a flower's poetry.
Apple, orange and cherry, peach and elderberry
blossom into food that we pick from a tree;
do we alike bloom on our itinerary
to bear healthy fruit like the broccoli?
So how to say goodbye to a princess Di,
or to children gunned down in a schoolhouse hell?
With bouquets of belladonna at the site to beautify,
with laurel, pansy, peony and canterbury bell.
What does a clover have to say
as a part of His blooming menagerie?
Do you think we all may tend to miss
a bit in our analysis?
-- by Pete Voelz 1999
(Dedicated to my sister-in-law,
Becky, who will likely enjoy
this more than anyone else.)
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