At distance, they seem a field of beehives
huddled in groups of lily white, soft pink
of roses. Now near: “You kept me alive,
your family here,” I whisper. Then sink
hands softly into a chosen cluster,
caress their silk-like flutes. Move my face close
to observe their mouths, tongues holding luster
of dusk, each interior stained with flows
dark red, like blood droplets. I kneel to tell:
“You see, my heart had stopped. The hospital’s
emergency room revived the limp shell
of me with digitalis. So I called
the drug firm days later to learn who grew
the crop, then came in love to thank you.”
Roger Armbrust
June 8, 2002
