“…Earth laughs in flowers to see her boastful boys
Who steer the plough but cannot steer their feet clear of the grave….”
—-Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Hamatreya”.
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Just outside my door, a little to the left,
beside the bottom step, I thought I heard
a crocus chuckle from a frost-heaved cleft.
A week or somewhat after that occurred
there was a laugh of daffodils along the pebbly walk.
Later, toting garden tools in my red wagon
how could I ignore those titterings of tulips,
giggling gladioli, snickering snapdragons and
a high-toned tee-hee from a blooming hollyhock?
Was this the earth laughing in flowers to remind
the maker of a private plotting once again
what ultimately is in charge, and what is not?
I shrugged and went indoors, only to find
not peace, not silence, but
the kalanchoe cachinnating in its pot.
Cognac and Emerson, before I went to bed,
made me this dream, from what Ralph Waldo said.
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EARTH LAUGHS IN FLOWERS
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