Sometimes I think I'm addicted to flora. If I'm in the throes of writing a poem, drinking a glass of Rioja, and realize I have approximately twenty minutes left before I have to start cooking dinner...hello botanicals. I used to bird my way out of poems, and O thank you Nikki Paley Cox, for bringing that to my attention.
We've noted the phenomenon at RHINO editorial meetings as well: the avian ex machina, or just general infestation. But back to plants. Today I was resisting planting a garden. I contemplated it yesterday afternoon, then decided to write a poem instead. It's called "The Strut." Are there any plants in it? Just some cut grass--unusually bereft of greenery. I figured writing a poem was better, because after all, I can take a poem with me, and I'm not going to dig up impatiens and begonias and cross state lines with them and keep them, and even if I did they'd die the first frost. But today we hopped in the Corolla and I got my fix and ripped the weeds and now it's all in the ground, baby! Sometimes I wonder if plants mean too much to me. But what, exactly? Better suss this metaphor out in a few more poems.
I am feeling rather