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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 little

flowers, things more pressing to the meeting of minds

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

giving the world my answer in roots, or at least in a sense of some

rootedness. If I could plant a redwood or a

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

 

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

me, and I have these little yellow flowers to simply

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

to keep alive in the world of my kitchen standing right up there 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 one next—or what they might do to

you if you should decide to 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 floating petals and

I hope somehow this makes a difference in the

way we go about our lives. It already has

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

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

them from me and also enjoy their essence in your own home right now.

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