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