(for Bonnie)

Silver-blue orchid
silver-blue ruffled edges, purple throat
I dreamed I picked it out of long rows
in the greenhouse
you say it means I've chosen you.
But it's impossible to go back
even if I wanted
the mouth a flower, like O'Keeffe's
young paintings, luscious and austere
her face now crevassed and seamed
as the red hills were she lives
the spirit-mother in her age
a pure old face in black clothes, my teacher

I struggle with the dream.
You say the orchid is your eyes
hair, clothes, blue with lace
I refuse it but I know
some part is true
your intensity, involution
the lips of the flower, holding on
depths and depths falling away.
Sun is hot through the greenhouse glass
I feel distorted, breathless
wanting the dry red hills, wanting my green
woods
that grow without care
I push my face against the wet glass

Truce: I covet but no longer buy
difficult houseplants
though I dream of
vines and tendrils
I never get the water right.
My house full of color
silk flowers, spiderplants and jade trees
the things I love
forgive long dry spells, sudden floods
and loneliness feeds me,
with light, space and air.
I did not dream
of taking you home.

Previously published and copyrighted in
Moving Out 8:2, Winter 79-80
Earth's Daughters #17
All rights reserved.

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