An elegant name for what is often
considered a weed. Wild carrot. White flower.
They recall a runner my mother placed
on the dining room table for holidays.
A purple drop from a wine glass.
The hot days and cool nights marked
by garden tiger lilies and roadside rogues
and early cherry tomatoes that I pick
and eat here in my shaded chair –
book, pencil, paper, iced tea, these words.
The house of spring is being closed.
The tulips, daffodils and irises have bloomed.
The lawn is a rain-soaked jungle green.
But everyone wants a beach house now.
Sun. Sand. No flowers or grass. Ocean.
A line of cars leave the funeral
led by one sprouting too many flowers.
Driving slowly, headlights on, ignoring the stoplight,
some passengers serious and somber, others laughing.
Hopefully, all for the same mournful reasons.
Forgotten in the lilies of the day
are the night’s terrors of the soul.
No mystic, not a believer, simple soul,
without divine connection, floating lightly and free,
a butterfly toiling and spinning at blooms.
Inspired by The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross.