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Me and the Fleeting Glimpse


by Darryl Price


 

 

I worry about my garden. I know there are

larger concerns lurking in the stale shadows than my limp

flowers, things more pressing to the meeting of minds

than thick lush leaves, but this is my own green way of

giving the world its roots, or at least a sense of

rootedness. If I could plant a redwood or a

whole mountain I would certainly do it yes yes yes I would just for

 

you. The wild world creates its fields and that's just fine with

me, and I have these little yellow flowers to

enjoy today-- I bought from China-- that I'm trying

to keep alive in the world today standing right up here in the window

before me. I don't know exactly where this hope always

springs from. Still I believe in its simple enough

elegant purpose—to be. That's what I like so

much about poems. There're many varieties

 

and they'll grow just about anywhere—you never

know where you'll find them next—or what they might do to

you if you eat one or more. Well could be nothing.

Maybe something. Maybe that's up to you. It's not

so much to go on I suppose. I'm growing these

tiny yellow flowers, not for world domination,

not to get your rapt attention, not to

bomb you, not to take away your land, not to fool

 

you in any way, not to rob you, not to trip

you over a cliff, and they are so very sweet

to look at with their softer than air petals and

I hope somehow this makes a difference in the

way we go about our lives. It already has

for at least me. I've made the choice to give you some of my

flowers inside these cupped words today. I hope you'll accept

them and also enjoy their presence in your own homes now.

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