Poems by Leonore Wilson

Affordable Flowers

by Leonore Wilson

From Canary Summer 2014

Leonore lives in the Capell Valley Watershed on a 1200-acre holistic cattle ranch that has been in her family since 1915. Her concern is saving it from "water nabbers," those who want to bulldoze the land for vineyards.

If only love were acquired easily as these:
The self-assured white roses, edifice of lilies,
Bleeding narcissus and rosemary, the awe
Of halved-milk cartons wielding the bunches
Of glib petals on a country road in August.

But no, remember Swann wrapped up in his illusions:
The little violin sonata by Franck
Replaying in his head, giving him grief
And happiness; the heavy syllables that soured
In his belly when he spoke her name, Odette.

Love with all its clumsiness, confusions,
Consequences. The law of the dragonfly
Battering his wings over the tar pit until he sticks.
That type of habit we’re enchanted by:
Dumb pomp and ardent spark of hurt.

Now they’re selling chrysanthemums and orange nasturtiums
On weekends in that light blue enameled booth
Under the oaks and palpitations of October.
So few gravitate to purchase. The prudent children
Wait who have picked the admirable from the grandfatherly shadows.

No one stops. The good society perhaps is inured now
To beauty. No one plays music in the garden anymore.
No one is seduced by the tea-colored pond or the illumination of ponies.
The faithful go home to their faithful grey flats, their private rooms.
The flowers remain harmonious, brilliant, undefeated.