In Praise of Flowers


While the world thunders around me,
the vision of my granddaughter’s face,
wearing a sadness beyond her years —
I gather hibiscus, grateful for the bright
galaxies of pollen on their pistils,
for their delicate sexual tongues igniting the air.

While children are gently stirring from sleep
in Basra only to be torn from
their houses by flying mortar,

and while rich nations turn away
from the children withering
in their mother’s arms in Niger,

I arrange pale pinks, deep mauves,
yellows and burnt orange in shallow bowls,
honoring the blossoms’ brief passage.

To awaken to the mysteries of the flowers
each day is a way of remembering
how the world devours its children

from New Orleans to Kashmir.
The yellow silky petals seem like the only
angel wings among us.