Flowers

You are always not noticing them,
and buy them as if they might save you from this,
drawn into lit scented space
by a bunch you think you can get along with—
of marigolds, say—
not too glorious or exotic;
still youthful; just a little thickset.
Green sticks inside glass; orange discs.
You walk away, though what you want
is to be let into their long moment;
more secretly still, you want them
to heal and sustain you. Perhaps they do…
But there they go, drooping and dying again
before you've stopped to contemplate,
given them time to reach you.
Now you come into your own — it's too late,
you've missed the best of things, so you hang on,
letting them scatter in pieces, tum to slime.
Hands on hollow stems and muck,
you plunge them into plastic
with fastidious tired guilt;
for days the vase soaks on the sink.
Yes: you'd rather analyse yourself,
labour at poems like this, than consider
a flower. Here is a marigold…
Ordinary and luminous; earth-bound,
though Mary the Virgin's gold.
Once sold by the barrel, showered in
broths and stews: to fend off pestilence,
"strengthen and comfort the hart'.
For bee stings, apply fresh petals directly.