A Poem by John Grey
Some petals are dressed in royal purple
Others apprise me of their sound.
A few carry a smidgen of bee.
And there’s one whose flower
reminds me of an overbite.
I don’t so much prune and plant
as synch, emote, provide
a platform for all that is truly
relevant to beauty in our culture,
not just for the current blooms
but the ghosts of blossoms past.
This stamen shimmers like glass.
Another nibbles minerals in the shadow.
There, a kind of botanical rhetoric.
Dawn sets some spiny leaves ablaze,
informs a shrub its going everywhere
but in the one place.
Twilight is lock-down,
but white bells shrug this off,
exist in a kind of nostalgia for the day,
stay afloat in moon-shadow,
rock the fine-toothed vessel of the stars.
Some rose-red exhalations.
A few clustering low.
Many speaking for the current climate.
Others in a lovely morning re-deploy.
This garden is my house of mirrors.
I see my face in the density of its soil,
the frenetic colors of the wind,
in the lightness of tiny and white,
in the darkness of full and everlasting.