A Purple Orchid
Evelyn's caramel colored
fingertips rub center of an orchid.
Soft saturated purple petals
awaken her eyes, like discovering
carving of ancient writings.
The Nile River on cave walls.
Why didn't you ever marry? I ask.
The men were all clueless,
she answers. Her eyes travel back
to melancholy days of 1959.
We stand in the flower
boutique both absorbing an orchid's beauty,
tracing perfect harvest moon silhouettes,
a moment coinciding with a ladybug's
wings circling the stem & essence of memories.
Men brought me red roses, Evelyn says. Not one
of them bothered to find out what I loved.
You sure love that orchid, says the boutique's owner,
as she approaches, wearing a sky-blue
apron with an Ohm symbol,
and a Here-Comes-The-Sun smile.
Evelyn replies, Yes, I sure do love it!
Orchids kept me out
of trouble over the years.
Poem for the Pink Petal Dragons
Through frigid glass doors
of the flower shop
I admire sophisticated stance
of tall pink Snapdragons.
My heart races like when I first
discovered pink lips of my lover
on my lips.
How much are they? I question.
Linda the florist responds,
What is your budget?
I never thought I’d need a flower budget.
Snipping with garden scissors wildflowers
Queen Anne’s Lace Goldenrods
Daisies Lavender Sunflowers off the side
of Mountain Road. I’d carry them in a canvas bag
fragile in July’s heat. At home an oval vase
cradled them with fresh river water.
Linda’s gentle fingers pull off leaves
of four pink snapdragons
wraps them in azalea tissue paper.
She places the bouquet in nook
of my elbow.
I gaze upon them a woman with a flower budget.
Spine elongated bones and muscles of my face softened.
At The Cusp of Autumn: Where Do Geese & Husband Go?
Zen's green fur and swaying tail absorb
sunlight as it glides over the French doors.
A clear vase cradles four red cockscombs
on granite countertop, each facing
a different corner of the open kitchen.
Farah stirs a pot of lentil and barley soup
with basil, thyme, Italian parsley.
Two mustard colored bowls
filled with soup and purple kale
harvested from her garden. From the kitchen
fuchsia and violet star shaped leaves spiraling
catch her eye. Seated at her oak table centered
in the room, she listens for the shutting ignition
of the old navy-blue Volkswagen in the front yard.
The hours shift, sun crouches behind mountains.
White feathered wings with black tips fly above.
The cat hops into Farah's lap. She strokes
her silent fur. Weight of her body, a soothing
warmth grounding her feet. Wind raises paprika colored
leaves, as sun disappears behind linked mountains.
Honking of the geese follows.
A drizzle begins.