Little more comes to tell
between the cracks and gulfs
in this numbed season
but such tracings of familiar
themes, as dear as
limited, stretched here
to modest extremes. In a matched
set, the canonical Flower
plays begonia, yearning
for radial symmetry
to harmonize or transcend
the outward tugging
of opposed leaves;
or has its flourish simply
split what was whole?
Here yet another orchid,
subtly novel in tint
and bevel to enable
a gaudy frame's sure grip.
Is this kitsch, is kitsch earnest
love lacking something,
perhaps ironic
sensibility, or simply
to be savored in its terms?
Yet here in graceful dangle
fit for grander folk, giraffe,
sheer artistry and joy
fly free as butterflies
coax the flowers to dance,
leaves, roots and all, as
dancing people like you
and me, sprung aloft
in heel-clicking buoyancy
and lucid effervescence
to touch the summoning
spirits above, wholly
shadowless, weightless
until the blind tug of gravity
at an ear says how thick
the medium must be
to capture such dimensionality
of dance and flight, the delicacy
of brief touches in the wide
expanse. Just so, my mind
at its seasonal tea-leaves,
construing conflicted meanings in
the random flow, everything
for a reason, the whole shebang.
For Karen, with lucite love
25 Dec 00