Floral Transport
Patricia Davis-Muffett
Glass lily glow, furiously reaching, twisting
into other blooms, seeking a higher shelf
like the ladder slid along the bookshelf–
the one you found to reclaim
this hated room–meant to reach
Bishop Caruth Collins
so far above my lowly station
on the fainting couch, divan,
Craigslist sofa for one woman, one
black dog warming feet, patched leather
where cat clawed, puppy scratched.
Eye to eye with
Olds, Oliver, Paz, Rich,
where my water glass holds court
beads of sweat slicking sides,
where the tiger’s eye protector
gift from my child, childhood
stuffed dog, old nose bleached,
in this place where the quilt covers my legs,
this quilt pieced for me alone, its
raucous colors the colors of my mind.
Overhead, more glass flowers, calm
in whites and purples, orchids
like the ones you buy me
over and over, the orchids
that return me to the garden
where we danced to fiddle,
hammer dulcimer, drove north
into Badlands, into mountains,
into forest, turned to each other
in the silence of backcountry
and reached for each other’s hands.
