Another Poem about Flowers

Poets wrote down the dailiness of their purple flowers

as if submerging them in sugar water;

pinning them down onto pieces of parchment

to make them last longer than a single season.


And in that way, her mother’s garden

lives between two lines of text,

and his lilacs and phlox get another breath

as his pen leaves a trail on the page.


The daily flowers turn eternal,

never shriveling up in late August heat

or plucked from the branch by a child’s hand

or yellowed by lack of rain.


The sorry-looking hyacinths

receive another chance

to resist the time and weather,

all the storms and droughts of the centuries.


*First line borrowed from “Don’t Write History as Poetry,” by Mahmoud Darwish


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