The Poet And His Flowers
Poem By Daniel Brick
In his loneliness
the poet began to envision
the whole world
as a field of flowers
native to his region.
It consoled him,
it gave him hope
that he could grasp
a beauty commensurate
to his dream of happiness.
A walk through
his field of wild flowers
early or late, himself bright
or blue - No! his mood counted
for nothing among wild things silent
and growing more lovely. They
are creatures of sun and rain
like himself. All things bow
to sun and rain in their turn,
scorching heat gentled by fresh water.
It was his good habit
to rise from his desk, littered
with papers, covered in scribbles
and corrections, and leaving behind
the poems he was writing simultaneously,
and carrying nothing, his mind as empty
as his hands, leave his house
and enter the flower field, there
to live through sensations for a while
until he was fully restored. He saw
two stalks of Wild Rye
bending away from each other,
like an index finger and middle finger
shaping a victory sign. From within
the rye, a lordly Sideoats Gamma
arched over, with tiny petals
hanging downwards, like a row of bells
too shy to ring in the silence
of growth. Thimble Weed shoots
rose up straight without restraint.
A patch of Stiff Goldenrod made
a stand as sturdy as the nearby
Sumac Bush. Surrounding the sumac,
Black-Eyed Susan, abundant and thriving,
displayed their bold energy.
Bergamot and Yellow Cone Flowers
vied with each other in height,
useless to say which is the taller.
And Bergamot's swirling scent made
the air heavy with sweetness.
Blazing Stare should have a stanza
to itself because it displayed
a different kind of light, glowing
from within and growing brighter -
it is an angelic apparition among flowers!
His walk come full circle, the poet cast
one last look over the flower fields.
'Someday, ' he shut his eyes, 'I will see
Ophelia gathering flowers and won't
hesitate to speak to her. Until then,
'I will settle for the visitation
of angels.' His eyes wide open, he smiled
and sighed at the same time. He returned
to his writing desk and the four
poems in progress... The night flowed on.