I did not succeed in drafting a second, much more succinct version of this poem. But this may be better than the original. Let me highlight the most significant changes:
Stanza 2
“It was fitting that we saw the pollinator’s first,
The givers, the gifters of gardens.”
Stanza 4
I wanted a succinct version of the poem to eliminate the passage regarding the bearded iris. I didn’t have the heart to do this. I am too sentimental. While this isn’t a significant change, I am highlighting the line I wrote to close out that passage.
“As if batting cobwebs, we broke thru, stepping up to the porch.”
Stanza 9
I was inordinately proud of the equivalent stanza in the first iteration, it’s word play. I wanted to hold on to it here. But, I reworked it.
“Here, with every visit, as I wandered,
A poet too shy or too wise,
I allowed my creative power to pollinate
Only one of the incipient intuitions
To be found among the plethora
Crowding all around me.”
Stanza 10
Almost entirely new.
“Suddenly, I was struck with a sense of what my mission
In this world, this universe, might conceivably be.
Lord, let my verses seed a solace into the daydreams
Of my unfortunate brethren, who, unlike me,
For a time, find themselves wandering unloved or estranged.
May a garden of Peace slowly grow, evolve all around them.”
Will I try for a succinct, iteration 3? Last night before bed, I decided, No. This morning over coffee, Maybe. A 3rd iteration is contingent on finding something new to say, not just excision.
*
*
Dedicated to my beloved husband, Floyd Russell Taylor
*
Once again, upon a weekend time, we shook off the city.
As always, by Friday, it felt like a fur drenched in wet.
At first, we motored through the fog, then, across the Golden Gate
And into the sun, the fun of Sonoma.
Our rental car conveyed our escape
To the haven-heaven of the Steng’s discrete stead.
*
Arriving by rounding a bend, there were beehives
Just inside the property fence.
It was fitting that we saw the pollinators first,
The givers, the gifters of gardens.
Behind them were horses at peace in a pasture.
Animal nobility, with a snort, one sized us up, then glanced away.
*
We veered to the right and idled the car
Right in front of a Victorian “Lady,” painted in yellow and orange.
The house was as perfect as a gingerbread cookie.
In the Spring, rings and rows of bearded iris,
In all the colors that an iris genetics could endow,
Rustled in the wind,
*
Dominating their dominion, which encircled the house.
Well, after all, despite their beards,
These were only diminutive flowers.
They could only hold us hostage
Through the dazzle of their emanating beauty.
As if batting cobwebs, we broke thru, stepping up to the porch.
*
Mary and John Steng were not at home. Of course not.
We were just being polite by ringing the bell.
John was always off riding a tractor for some Park and Rec.
And Mary? Forever out yonder in the gardens,
One for vegetarians, the other for ornamentalists.
We parked on the grass behind the house,
*
Two weekend guests about to roost.
We separated.
Always a man with list,
Mary went with Russ, to show him her laden tables,
Her myriad baskets and bushels.
She listened as he beckoned his selections.
*
Then too, she picked his requests from the trees,
Or dug them up from below.
Meanwhile, I wandered the mazy paths
Of a flower garden Mary named her “secret daydream.”
I was hidden in growth that had stretched itself up,
Inside a wild thicket that had spread itself wide.
*
The trees were dropping fruit.
The bushes were all densely poxed
With a rash of miniature blooms.
The ground flowers rioted over here, over there,
Rioted everywhere
But the paths encrusted with clover and weed.
*
Here, with every visit, as I wandered,
A poet too shy or too wise,
I allowed my creative power to pollinate
Only one of the incipient intuitions
To be found among the plethora
Crowding all around me.
*
Suddenly, I was struck with a sense of what my mission
In this world, this universe, might conceivably be:
Lord, Let my verses seed a solace into the daydreams
Of my unfortunate brethren, who, unlike me,
For a time, find themselves wandering unloved or estranged.
May a garden of Peace slowly grow, evolve all around them.
*
His purchases completed,
Russ sent Mary into the flowers
To find and retrieve his Steves.
Mary knew how to lure me back out.
She knew I would be surreptitious,
Watching her choose and cut her flowers into a bouquet,
*
Customized just for me.
She knew I would follow her back to my Russ,
As always, a man who was waiting for me patiently.
Sunday, the next day, inspired,
Russ cooked his treasure of vegetables
Into a feast for the two of us.
*
The world locked out of our apartment,
The phone off its hook,
We sat across from each other at table.
We gave each other a smile, just a single, signaling smile,
But one so deeply felt, so authentic,
Surely, God Himself took note (or, in absentia, His angel of a secretary).
*
I said a kind of Grace:
“May we travel to Mary’s again, and again, and again.
After, Russ, you cook.
For a day we need solace, I’ll start writing a poem
About us in a garden together.
Later, I’ll pass it on to whoever, pass it on forever.”
*
Spontaneously, we both rose,
And bending over the table toward each other,
We sealed my Grace with a kiss.
*
*
Steven Golden
December 2nd, 2023
stevengoldenpoetry 