Tag Archives: flowers

No One Else

I feel
warm hand
over mine
on our way
to those places
either one of us
could go
with someone else
and we could
the flowers
and the river
and the woods
another body
beside us
there isn’t
set of hands
my body
the clouds
after the sun
goes down.






“The Lovers in the Poet’s Garden IV” by Vincent van Gogh, 1888


Neat and tidy beds
are for beginners
who haven’t spent
enough time sitting
by the open window
with a pillow
crushed between
their chest and knees
breathing in
the lilac gone wild
or the sweet
magnolia ashei
to be inhaled.
Neat and tidy beds
are for those
who need control
over creativity—
who believe
that letting the soft
and delicate petals
of the columbine
with the wood mint
might lead to one
taking advantage
of the other.
Neat and tidy beds
have so much
pruned into them—
as though
it made no sense
to believe
that the milkweed
and the marigold
could compliment
each other
if they were allowed
the freedom
to touch and bloom
below the sheets
of sunlight
ruffled with
occasional rain.





“Flower Beds in Holland” Vincent van Gogh, 1883

Waiting for the Wildflowers

All winter
we wait for them—
for the surprise
of blue
or yellow or white
and we take
their picture as if
they were babies
we want to show off
to our friends!
Soon they will
become confetti
for the celebration
of spring—
a reward
for enduring
that colorless season,
which will wait its turn
to come again
while summer
flaunts its green
and autumn leaves
cover the woods
in a blanket of orange—
but today, the
Harbinger of Spring
is stirring
and whispering
wake up
to the snow trillium
and bluebells
and yellow buttercups
that will fill the air
with a fragrance
so sweet
we might forget
what trouble
grows inside the houses
we left behind
to spend a few hours
through this carnival
of hope and rebirth.





The Botanist

I don’t think he knows
he’s beautiful—
which is lovely and strange
and maybe even telling
of a kind of innocence
that comes from loving
wild things better than
human things, who sting
and wither and grow thorns
that can be hard to pull out
if his center is as soft and fragile
as his Bleeding Hearts—
those plump and tender blossoms
who return to him every year—
and will never break his heart.



Things happened
that weren’t particularly
memorable or wonderful
or exciting today—
but I was alive with all senses intact,
and I smelled the roses in a literal way
when a child no more than five
ran right into me at the park,
fleeing her mother’s disapproval
over the handful of wild blossoms
she’d picked while her mother’s
attention was on her phone—
and I wanted to tell the child
to hold onto those roses
and run a little faster
while she’s still young enough
to believe that beauty is worth
such stunning futility.
But I was silent—
which is what, when grown,
we’ve learned so well to be.

DeMaris Gaunt


Found a bumble bee on my walk,
doubled over, dead, but freshly so—
with a velvet coat still bright
as a morning daffodil.
Its black enamel eyes
were frozen in some unknowable expression
which felt familiar and sad.
The weightless body was the size
of my fingertip, and as I held it in my palm
I thought of bringing it home,
placing it on the table for you to see—
but we’d just had dinner there
and you didn’t seem interested in my details,
which is why I took the walk
that led me to the silent bee—
and I admired his grounded wings, alone,
before returning his lifeless body
to the bed of bright green weeds.


DeMaris Gaunt