~Crooked Run Creek in Delaplane, Virginia~
What does a creek in late Autumn have to do with a poem about a flower that was immortalized in a jazz singer's hair?
Nothing, I suppose.
But then last week I posted a two year old photograph of gardenias from my garden - and that was pretty random too. Plus, I haven't posted a poem in... like forever (or so it feels like - when really, it was only on 20 March 2011).
And I like crooked creeks, Autumn, gardenias and Billie Holiday. Perhaps that is all that really matters here? Perhaps liking these things is enough.
The trouble is, you can never take
That flower from Billie's hair.
She is always walking too fast
and try as we might,
there's no talking her into slowing.
Don't go down into that basement,
we'd like to scream. What will it take
to bargain her blues,
To retire that term when it comes
to her? But the grain and the cigarettes,
the narcs and the fancy-dressed boys,
the sediment in her throat.
That's the soil those petals spring from,
Like a fist, if a fist could sing.