This is in praise of the immortal poets
Who wrote about flowers who wrote about flowers
The way I would like to needlepoint if I could
As Im sure my great grandmother did, pansies, white
Violets, little remembrances with no stitch dropped
But I am no needlewoman.
Let me gather them up all the English wildflowers
The American ones. Thank you Lord Tennyson for the
Flower in the crannied wall reminding me to be of good cheer
And grow even in the crevices brightly and Blake holding the flower
In his palm like infinity, Emerson with his Rhodora, and Blake again
With his sunflower, all of you I praise and I think of the kindness you
Showed to such humble subjects as those and you embroidered also
the fringed gentian, William Cullen, the wild honeysuckle, Phillip Freneau and I remember the music of
MacDowell too
to a wild rose
The simple melody how it flowed over me hearing it played on the piano
By gifted students of music in my Grandmother’s piano studio
And I wish to be sung to like a child again by the flower poems to be among them
That way, their cheering colors and fragrances lifted up in the words of great men
Who were not ashamed of beauty even of a fairy like brevity
Keats most of all with his musk roses
Who bent down and praised as Shakespeare did rosemary, forget me nots
the crown That Ophelia wore when dreaming became too much transported by grief and love
In the glassy stream to our rue.
mary angela douglas 22 october 2023
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