Three Poems by Connie Jordan Green
Friend, we remain under pandemic orders—
mask, distance, isolate—yet the days grow
longer and our hopes become the thing with wings,
lifting along with birds, butterflies, and joy.
Bloom where you are planted, the sages tell us.
We bury our roots a little deeper
in the good earth, raise our faces to sun
and rain. We are daisies in the field, trillium
of the dank woods, more than blooms, we are wind
in the trees, ants and crickets, all that crawls
and chirps. We are the wedding of hydrogen
and oxygen, stardust eons on its way
to this holy place where we eat and sleep,
breathe and pray for one more day.
Zinnias in July
They come in rainbows—
yellow, red, orange, pink,
hands blending genes of old
stock into bright hybrids.
Summer afternoons they wave
to bee and butterfly, flaunt
their beauty like long-legged
Miss America contestants
parading in multi-hued gowns.
They are maestros among
the marigolds, ballerinas
beside the staked clematis.
They are magnets to our eyes,
sacrifices to our shears. Their
flowers center our dining table,
stand in dim rooms like lighthouses
calling the sailor home.