A tightness prompts

a constricting

that pulls a string

that moves in a creeping current

up to my throat

but the air tickles and

try though I might

I cannot suppress the cough

that barks into the night.

I slip out of bed

to sit alone in the chair

beside the sky-dark window.

It is then I hear in my lungs

the murmur of living Mullein,

even though her stalwart stalk,

budded in summer with buttery blossoms

stands dry and brown

in winter’s garden.

Stay with me, Verbascum thapsus,

for I am lonely with fever

and fear edges my breath.

Blanket my chest

with the soothing sage-gray

of your lush and velvety leaves.

We can be allies, I proffer:

help me heal

and you will always be welcome

wherever you set your roots,

be it in the lawn

the lettuce bed

under the apple tree or

among the pumpkins in their patch.

I never doubted her promise

or questioned her advice

and now, old friends,

with every spring

and grateful lungs

I watch for her return.

Each in Its Season

 

It is barely April

and the much maligned dandelion

is among the first arrivals.

She comes hurling herself at our lawns uninvited.

Is that why she is unwelcome?

Radiant little being!

Look at her glowing cheeks

and love her for her steadfast devotion.

 

Meanwhile, we watch impatiently

for our garden darlings:

the tender tulips of May

the pomp and peonies of June

the irises so independent

lilies lithe and lovely in July’s heat.

 

Following these divas

the umbels of elders flower

like points of sweet cream dappled in a basket

and the heady scent of valerian

soothes our sleep through open windows.

 

Soon Queen Anne’s lace

fringes every field and meadow

and ornamental jewelweed

sways tall and taller, pink and laughing

at the stalwart efforts and dense yellow of goldenrod.

 

And then the asters of August,

appearing right on time,

first as questions,

later as purple answers.

 

Each in its season.

Each with its reason.

Why here,

why now?

Choosing to live

is all.

Limonium carolinianum        

 Her territory:

the essence of temporary,

the uncertain, beaten, worn

and ever-moving, ever-changing breath

where sea and moon

exchange their greetings.

 

She thrives,

indeed can only survive

among shore rocks and marsh grasses,

her roots anchored

in soft and spongey sea mud.

The air she breathes is cold and salty.

Her taut, thin stems,

wrapped in seaweed

and the papery remains of crabs,

branch into spikey statements

of tiny blue-gray flowers,

sprays of pale delicacy

that hint at her tough tenderness.

 

She’s weathered a lot of storms,

has many tales to tell.

But she saves them.

And when all the other flowers

are dead or dormant

and it’s winter

and we look for warmth and stories,

there she is,

reminding us

that the tide advances

and the tide recedes,

so send your roots down deep

and hold your head up high.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sleeping bulbousness

round-hipped and heavy-lidded

layers of elephantine skin and promise

you are the India of flora

a subcontinent unto yourself

silk-red as a sari.

 

Having chosen a pot as round

and windowless as your soul

the gardener

in the dark basement

of winter

tucks you into pillows of earth

and waits

and watches

the invisible egg

of gestation

nestled in dirt

a singular

self-satisfied womb

taking all the time you need

and more

no questions asked.

 

And then

with the attitude of royalty

you present yourself.

 

How could we not

long for you?

 

Comes the carpet

long, slow, green

five runners firm

and impervious.

 

Each scarlet bell

a new surprise:

that such majesty

would visit this windowsill

that such nectar and velvet

of carmine and sap

would know from black

to answer to its name

and lift,

open its arms

and bow

to the applauding sun.