1.5.11

Wildflowers



Wildflowers

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page  
of them, all beginning with the letter b.  
Guidebooks preserve our knowledge
of their hues and shapes, their breeding.
Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—
like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—
out of their lovely names.
At the edge of the prairie in a cabin
when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard   
a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar  
where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—
seem to blow with the announcing winds outside  
as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin
of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.


THESE ARE THE DAYS WHEN BIRDS COME BACK ... Almost June ...

 ...




THESE are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,--
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!


[ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Indian Summer]