In the Shadow.
The wild pansy shoves its persistent face beneath the hackberry's shade, true plum and gold, with the alternate names: Johnny jump up, heartsease, or my favorite, love-in-idleness. I bow closer to the new face. I am always superimposing a face on flowers, I call the violet moon vinca the choir, and there are surely eyes in the birdeye speedwell, and mouths on the linearleaf snapdragon. It is what we do in order to care for things, make them ourselves, our elders, our beloveds, our unborn. But perhaps that is a lazy kind of love. Why can't I just love the flower for being a flower? How many flowers have I yanked to puppet as if it was easy to make flowers, for anything to live.
Ada Limon, a current Guggenheim fellow, is the author of five poetry collections, including The Carrying, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry. Her fourth book, Bright Dead Things, was named a finalist for the National Book Award, a finalist for the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award, and a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. She serves on the faculty of Queens University of Charlotte Low Residency M.F.A program and lives in Lexington, Kentucky.
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|Title Annotation:||FIVE POEMS|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2020|
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