Tuesday, September 2, 2008

This owes as much to Wikipedia as to Whitman

First draft. Just written since about 11:40. What I write here are first drafts, generally, unless I note otherwise.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOMED

Food to Svensson’s Copper Underwing, cousin of the privet,
some paschal sprout, pale, like blood under skin,
you mark my coming and going
with your scent:

asexual, Syringa pubescens, vulgaris, spontanea
you are as quick as spring to show and sway,
aloof as a tomboy, fickle as water ice,
lovely and complete and duplicitous.

It is when your bloom is gone
that you will come inside my house:
your sapwood, your heartwood turning
into a twisted flute
for a homely song.

1 comment:

Maria Padhila said...

yay plant poem! re insomnia: have had the opposite problem while doing my novel boot camp: keep dozing off and writing chunks about characters falling asleep. nonstop excitement.