weekly poem


No seduction in the hothouse, its aisles
of deliberate orchids only heave
beneath ceiling fans. The horticulturist's
a bawd--her monstrous offspring affront
with chromatic perfection, charm in array.

But when the orange orchard blossoms,
I am thrown.

Raptures in the garden? Never once did rows
of carrot so well-weeded yield
a swoon. Beware that flim-flam man,
the farmer, I grouse in passing, sowing
season by season an almanac theology.

But when orange blossoms wave
in pneumatic arcades, I dither. I coo. I hallelu.

- by Kimberly Johnson (from 32 Poems)

Warning: count(): Parameter must be an array or an object that implements Countable in /home/public/wp-includes/class-wp-comment-query.php on line 405

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *