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