Moonbeam coreopsis along Superior
in a maze of rose gardens
where we wander past Mister Lincolns,
and other epiphanies
of pollination and art,
the sublime and the comic.
Black buds of Taboo
like finely carved blood.
She understands the architecture
of plants and recalls for me
their stories and genealogies
while pulling petals to rub
between fingertips and on skin.
Those words, "mid-life crisis,"
"commitment," the unknown
we know as time and ourselves,
even as the mists rise later
in the pasture behind the house,
dew soaking clothes on the line,
the fluids of our bodies
giving proof once more
that irreducible desire
is what cannot be thought,
the one and unique rose,
never to find its like again.
(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.
A previously unpublished piem, I post this in response to Anna Montgomery's prompt at dversepoets.com, where she asks us to post poems that incorporate words from different languages. This is my submission, in the language of roses.