She let me add Those trumpets opened, The morning glories were I hated the red I loved the delicate flowers I liked the blues, asked Every morning is like her: But she was too dainty to I should have
a climbing vine
to her garden.
the blue flowers
in my every morning,
that yet still, today,
cry for sun.
twisted around the fence –
the blue flowers were
our only compromise, because
crinkly marigolds
or whatever
the easy hardy ones were.
I hated the woody geraniums –
too tough.
like her.
if we could plant a morning glory
as beautiful as her.
beautiful and elegant
blue climbing
climb higher that mortal trellis,
live longer than
a twist of fate.
grown her with thorns
prickly but strong,
made her an immortal rose, but
I could not.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
