# 47. 🌸 To be a flower is profound responsibility.

A meditation on ferocity.

Meditative Rose, 1958 by Salvador Dali

At work, at play, at school, in traffic, in the news… idiots abound. Obstacles appear. We are brought to our knees, daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. Higher powers bow before reptilian brain. Blood boils, fear rises, anxiety sizzles, sadness descends.

What to do?

Well, read poems, obviously. I came across this beauty from Emily Dickinson thanks to an artist friend just last week:

Bloom—is Result—to meet a Flower
And casually glance
Would scarcely cause one to suspect
The minor Circumstance

Assisting in the Bright Affair
So intricately done
Then offered as a Butterfly
To the Meridian—

To pack the Bud—oppose the Worm—
Obtain its right of Dew—
Adjust the Heat—elude the Wind—
Escape the prowling Bee

Great Nature not to disappoint
Awaiting Her that Day—
To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility—

Emily often needs a second read, granted. No crowd pleaser, she. But if you take what you can, she sinks under skin, takes root in the bones, blossoms in the blood, perfumes the breath. To the extent that when your spouse presents you with this T-shirt, you see the subtext: True Love ❤️

Speaking of Sylvia, I wrote two poems for her. One when wee (well, college) and one not too long ago. the first poem was written when i ditched the upper case for two years entirely because e.e. cummings, and i thought everyone cared about - or should care about - sylvia plath’s suffering. The second poem was written when I had lived long enough to begin to understand it.

1. FOR TED HUGHES, ON HIS DEATH (1998)

the trinity
infinitely together at last.
the fascists are dead,
so is the Jew.
every woman
loves a boot in the face -
and she has hers back -
her men in black.
and I (the peanut-crunching crowd) -
can smile to see
the last act
of the great striptease,
and the curtain fall
at the end of it all,
and simply draw
a circle complete -
if not replete
with someone else’s
metaphors.

2. FOR SYLVIA, ON MY LIFE (2020)

I am a potted plant.
Bound within
hand-painted ceramic,
well-behaved.
I am a piñata.
A punch to the gut
may spill forth
strange treasures.
I am a poet.
But choose to bake
pineapple-upside-down cakes
instead of my head in the oven,
to watch them rise.
Like air -
I am.
I am.
I am.

To pack the bud, oppose the worm, obtain one’s right of dew, to adjust the heat, elude the wind, escape the prowling bee… is no walk in the park! To be a Flower is profound responsibility; Bloom - is Result. I wish Sylvia could’ve.

I am glad I can.