We Planted

​
The plumeria we planted 
by the front door
is blooming now
velvet yellow among
green leaves. 
We didn’t know the color
to expect then, when we placed 
the root into the soil.
How hopeful is the act of planting!
But, how little we know 
of what takes hold,
of what will flower 
but not flourish
before the quick fall 
to the ground.

From The Congress of Luminous Bodies 



Flowers


The Farmer’s Market flowers
of a certain age sit on my kitchen counter
waiting for disposal, their fresher
sisters already placed in vases
around the house.  Red gerbera daisies
bending at the neck, yellow and purple
tulips open and blowsy as roses.
(Think Melina Mercouri still sexy to the end.)
I can’t bear to throw them out
though their stems are slimy
and the water stinks of ammonia.
They have a languorous grace
leaning over the lip of the vase
as if standing straight were too much
trouble.  (Think hookers in a humid city.)
But, perhaps they’re more like the women
I saw last week lunching at the food court
in the mall, wearing gauzy purple
dresses, flowing pants and tunics,
gray heads under floppy red hats,
laughing and happy as if celebrating 
the end of fashion, the too tight
girdle of good taste.

From Traveler in Paradise: New and Selected Poems



Red Roses

​
Because my kitchen overlooks
the boardwalk where we once walked
I see you turn, face my balcony, 
and for a moment look into the house.
I am scrambling late breakfast eggs.  
My dog, who once loved you, goes on eating
her kibble, doesn’t announce
your presence with her customary bark.
I stir the eggs and quell the urge
to call out for you.
Can you see from your vantage
the twelve red roses in the tall vase?
The buds are tight and full of promise.
I was up late last night, got up late
this morning, but still in time 
to glimpse your face as you walk
past my house, past my open window.

From The Green Season, 2nd Edition