~KATHLEEN MULLEN~
CLEOME
for Curt Hoffman(1945-1998)
So thick on the ground
they look
like weeds,
Cleome come up, it seems
from every
Seed they sow.
Winter doesn't
daunt them,
So in spring they're a
small carpet
spread
Between the daffodils, a
soft, mild
green.
Soon it's textured; some
(part of
some design)
Rising above the rest, so
saving
their lives.
Their stems grow thick as
toothpicks,
skewers,
Pencils, dowels over the
long season.
Downy stem hairs coarsen,
pricking
careless hands.
All this noticing came
after I'd
planted
Them myself. Before,
they
were only tall, feathery
Flowers in Curt's
garden÷pink, shades
of pink
From hot to pale to blush;
elegant
Lacy globes of bloom, some
a handspan
full,
Small parachutes that kept
opening
upward,
Flowers for dreaming in,
for cradling
The intricate airs, the
light of
the world,
And for
starlight.
He taught me
The
name÷clee-OH-may÷rounding the
sound with
A kissing mouth, planting
them
Part of the passionate
universe.
Not a man's flower,
you'd think,
not phlox
Or hosta, or pungent
marigold.
But Curt could surprise
you that
way. Spiky
And strong-stemmed, he
could bloom
in a minute
With tenderness, hold out
a delicate
Hand, invite you to
dream.
Soft as petals,
His eyes would widen at
the spaces
his
Imagination held, the
light cradled
there.
My cleome came up on
their own this
year,
Some mixed in with the
four-o-clocks,
Three in the sidewalk
cracks.
One's pink, but I
Remember planting only
white last
year.
Likely that's accident,
just seedy
persistence,
Some way, through several
seasons.
Or I'm just
Forgetful.
But maybe it's a gift
From that same passionate
universe
where my friend
Lives now, still teaching
and naming
and
Growing, at home in the
surprising
light.
© by Kathleen
Mullen
