Because I Could Not Make the Orchid Bloom
despite the vigilance and scrupulous care
of weekly half-diluted nitrogen, circulating air
around its roots, bright indirect light, diffused,
as perfect as Vermeer's, I finally moved it
to the bathroom window sill to die. It bloomed
profusely then as though some unknown
condition had been accidentally met,
the two green knotted ropes unwinding
from the stem, a matter not between me and them,
but a matter between their own life force and sun
proving that nothing that closely watched can
possibly survive the care-- how like the child
I've been losing now for years, the daughter we
want back from grass and crack, the decade
of parent groups, the homely prayers, the attitude
of gratitude our shield, our sword to save
her from the inevitable, robust decline
that ends or will not end in death.
Unceremonious Tasks
To my small child
A wren saves every twist of hair and pearl
of dung to build its nest, yet I still find it hard to find
plenty in these moments when your day can not begin
unless I am awake, when my night
is yours since you are not sleepy,
when I am your moon and sun, your galaxy and all
the stars beyond it. I should gather these pretty
nuisances now and shore them up
against the time you will no longer need
me, but it is hard being grateful for
abundance and not behaving like other domestic
animals-- the squirrel amassing the always
never enough, the bear eating until she drops
off to sleep, nearly satisfied.
Bio Note
Rosemarie Johnstone has won awards for her poetry from the American Association of University Women, the Academy of American Poets and the Lake Superior Regional Writers Competition. Her most recent work has appeared in The Sow's Ear and ZYZZYVA.
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