All that remains to be seen
Every flower feeds a sun
Every spidered blossom spun
Every petal comes undone
As in the end lies what begun.
~Aucassin Verdè
Every Flower
They come and come some more as if the season
were a volcano erupting along the horizon pitting
everything with a scattershot beauty that leaves no
eye unwounded. This one might be handed to a
brown-eyed girl, the future streaming in her wild
windborne hair while that one might be set in a vase
on a nightstand beside the bed of a dying father.
We might go on this way, naming and arranging, but
what’s the use? Is it better to leave the young boy’s
hand empty, his heart unfettered by the innocent perils
of photosynthesis, or place him before the turning
shoulder of a girl that will know the cut fruit of a
thousand fields before the fragrant pass of her time?
So the petalcock casts it starry net and for a moment
blinds the gazer against all that remains to be seen.
We go on this way over and over until the dream
ceases to release us and we press the ghost up through
the dissipation of common rain to fall into the stigma
of a thousand year pistil that leads back to every flower.
Joseph Gallo
August 12, 2010
Every spidered blossom spun
Every petal comes undone
As in the end lies what begun.
~Aucassin Verdè
Every Flower
They come and come some more as if the season
were a volcano erupting along the horizon pitting
everything with a scattershot beauty that leaves no
eye unwounded. This one might be handed to a
brown-eyed girl, the future streaming in her wild
windborne hair while that one might be set in a vase
on a nightstand beside the bed of a dying father.
We might go on this way, naming and arranging, but
what’s the use? Is it better to leave the young boy’s
hand empty, his heart unfettered by the innocent perils
of photosynthesis, or place him before the turning
shoulder of a girl that will know the cut fruit of a
thousand fields before the fragrant pass of her time?
So the petalcock casts it starry net and for a moment
blinds the gazer against all that remains to be seen.
We go on this way over and over until the dream
ceases to release us and we press the ghost up through
the dissipation of common rain to fall into the stigma
of a thousand year pistil that leads back to every flower.
Joseph Gallo
August 12, 2010
post-time 9:39 AM
2 Comments:
He got up and came around the desk, and got up close to us. He looked over our heads, out the door at his garden.
“No matter what I do, some of the plants here don’t live long enough to find a home. Some of the flowers I grow are for them.”
-- from my novel in progress. Seems like a comment on point.
Yes, a very apt and appropriate one, too. I like the idea of that.
Flowers for the enjoyment of plants that may or may not thrive. And why not? Something rooting deeper there, eh? Love it.
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