The Poet And His Flowers

In his loneliness the poet began to envision the whole world as a field of flowers native to his region. It consoled him, it gave him hope that he could grasp a beauty commensurate to his dream of happiness. A walk through his field of wild flowers early or late, himself bright or blue - No! his mood counted for nothing among wild things silent and growing more lovely. They are creatures of sun and rain like himself. All things bow to sun and rain in their turn, scorching heat gentled by fresh water. It was his good habit to rise from his desk, littered with papers, covered in scribbles and corrections, and leaving behind the poems he was writing simultaneously, and carrying nothing, his mind as empty as his hands, leave his house and enter the flower field, there to live through sensations for a while until he was fully restored. He saw two stalks of Wild Rye bending away from each other, like an index finger and middle finger shaping a victory sign. From within the rye, a lordly Sideoats Gamma arched over, with tiny petals hanging downwards, like a row of bells too shy to ring in the silence of growth. Thimble Weed shoots rose up straight without restraint. A patch of Stiff Goldenrod made a stand as sturdy as the nearby Sumac Bush. Surrounding the sumac, Black-Eyed Susan, abundant and thriving, displayed their bold energy. Bergamot and Yellow Cone Flowers vied with each other in height, useless to say which is the taller. And Bergamot's swirling scent made the air heavy with sweetness. Blazing Stare should have a stanza to itself because it displayed a different kind of light, glowing from within and growing brighter - it is an angelic apparition among flowers! His walk come full circle, the poet cast one last look over the flower fields. 'Someday, ' he shut his eyes, 'I will see Ophelia gathering flowers and won't hesitate to speak to her. Until then, 'I will settle for the visitation of angels.' His eyes wide open, he smiled and sighed at the same time. He returned to his writing desk and the four poems in progress... The night flowed on.