Meadow Flowers (Goldenrod and Wild Aster)
Like a gate to Paradise, illumined as how fluttering angels might appear, the meadow seems misty while at the same time impossibly bright. But there looks to be hardly any way into such purity of colour, through the many layers of lavender and yellow. And yet a few days before my father passed, he shouted for my sister to come quickly to his bedside. “Haven’t we found a new way of living?” he asked her. When she gathered herself and after being asked again, not knowing what he meant, she merely said, “No.” Though he insisted, “Yes, I think we’ve found a new way of living!” and went on tell her about an abundance of wondrous flowers he was seeing. Some years later, when another sister brought it up, I asked if she thought it had something to do with all the strong medicine he’d been taking. She thought not, rather that he was catching glimpses of heaven. Wouldn’t that be something though, if there weren’t the glittering cities and twenty-four karat streets thrumming with harp concertos-- no souls tipping diadems or flouncing in long robes, just the eternity of a second-chance earth flushed with asters and clusters of goldenrod? Wouldn’t we then become like the flowers too, our former sufferings blown from us as no more than light pollen into morning air? For this no doubt, we would want to let go, braced by the faith of flowers among those last, cold moments before being whisked into a valley of lemon lilies, or perhaps blessed with the surety of wild rose and camellias. Claude Wilkinson This poem first appeared in Claude Wilkinson's recent book, Marvelous Light (Stephen F. Austin State University Press.) Claude Wilkinson is a critic, essayist, painter, and poet. His poetry collections include Reading the Earth, winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award, andJoy in the Morning, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. His most recent collection, Marvelous Light, was published by Stephen F. Austin State University Press.
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September 2024
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