Each Spring brings clumps of ratty sword-like leaves
Pushing through, there, beneath the old lime tree
In our front yard. Ugly, unwelcome weeds—
Volunteer ginger plants—not much to see.
Narrow spikes fatten, lean this way and that,
And grow quite tall, despite the lack of care,
A minute haven for the feral cats
That prowl and hunt and feed and linger there.
But then, as Summer dissipates to Fall,
Earth’s dirt incites enthralling miracles.
Each drab plant blooms, explodes a fireball—
Defies leached language: colorless, trite, frail.
Like an inverted crystal chandelier,
That fiery blossom reaches toward the sun;
Its jeweled palette, unconveyed to ear,
Requires eye—no poet’s word can stun
As does that bold earthbound starburst—molding
Lemon sparks, orange, ev’ry shade of gold.
(9/10/08)