H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
CARMEN BUGAN
This Spring
While
she uproots blooming irises from the backyard
Where
they grow for no one
And
brings them to the flower bed next to the road,
Gusts
of wind and sun blind her and make her feel lost.
She
digs with her fingers to feel the reality of soil
Not
as harsh as the pain of letting go
Or
as otherworldly as the bird’s nest which
She
knocks over with her shoulder.
But
she looks for that softness and warmth
That
will be a sort of home––after death.
The
father wobbles in his sandals towards the flowers
Thinking
of the image of his heart on the monitor––
A muscle the size of his fist flickering with the weight of
light.
She
plants a row of irises on the side of house and he smiles
At
fragrant violet and white petals unfolding:
“In
July we’ll have gladiolas and next year
Let’s
get lots of colors, lots of colors.”
She
tells him that the peonies and geraniums and roses and lilies
Grow
so strongly it must be a good sign: he will get better, she says.
This
is the hour when there is only time for
Delicate
colors around the gray house, the locus trees in the yard
From
which they take armfuls of blossoms and bring them in
And
fill the rooms with white scent of blown spring.
[Originally
published in NHS 2001, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs01/bugan.html.]