Ode to Rose of Sharon
A branch cracks, a flock of birds feathers skyward,
her gaze follows— clear, bright eyes
cooing with the wonderment of a child. “I want to learn to fly.”
Leave some flour and shortening about,
she’ll bake a pie—and teach you too,
with black raspberries—wild—seedy—delicious.
She stirs their juice—color like no other—
not raspberry, not blackberry—but black raspberry.
She comprehends the subtle distinctions of our preferences,
because she knows and enjoys her own.
Frugal but never spartan, economic but never flint-skinned,
a great recycler, marveling at the waste of others.
spoiling the future of anthropology, reallocating detritus.
A piece of muslin is puzzled into window shades,
with pulleys that you explain,
her mind, part engineer, perceives mechanics.
A worker carving sense in a wilderness,
she cuts brush to get at the fig tree.
She’s practiced and practical—ends her day early—
tired from her unyielding tasks;
a child holding up a scraped clean dinner plate—
or a bowl molded by thumb from mashed bread and glue
“Look what I made,” she beams. “Aren’t I great?”
Often she rubs her luck at riddles or games of chance,
thinking it is skill,
as she gloats over one more hoard of champion chess.
She’s a moth of social enterprise
organizing a dance, a drama, an odd time dinner.
If you ask, she’ll serve picnics in winter, fireballs in hot July.
Always game for ripe adventure,
she’ll calibrate jello convinced she’s a judge of wiggle,
she’ll troll the bawdy horseshoe crab
the licentious cuckoo, the musky bug in heat.
She’ll pot herbs for twenty–paper-whites or amaryllis,
knead gnocchi, bake bread, boil rice, roast pork,
snip basil for salad, mash mint for tea.
and doesn’t bat at testing leftovers on any passing Queen.
For her cloth is homespun not brocade,
impolite but thoroughly woven,
and she asks only that her whites to be white.
her yellows to be sun,
her orange to be sun kissed,
If you’re sick in gut or spirit she’ll come carry you,
whisk you home to soup and waffles,
cool your brow ‘til the fever passes,
throw rocks to get you out of bed.
She’s plucky in her humor, full of piss and nettle,
always forgetting her small bundle of tact outside your door.
She’ll put two thumbs up in any extravaganza
snort and sniff as she hollers “Gawd it’s awful!”
She likes fact. Studies problems:
changing wine to water in a thirsty desert?
Like Blake she’s seen the marriage of heaven and hell.
and cranky in the afternoon, her voice swears–
at injustice, the millionaires who line her block, the men who never listen.
Offer her words on paper—she edits text, endorses—improves.
Her keen appraising eye lays to her work
But never lies.
She spits on both sides of the Janus-faced,
whether tycoons tied to their tobacco fortunes,
or imperious codgers untethering their seatbelts.
She disarms the indirect, ignores callous acknowledgements,
and won’t cavort with toads.
For she’s no coward,
and would rather give than take it on the chin.
When she is injured she retreats like a beagle under a Denver porch.
licking her freckled wounds, all-knowing, smartly self-contained.
But she can endure entrapment for only a short spell—
Just let a car pass bound for California!—and out she leaps ears flapping,
“Take me with you! Take me!
Tail wagging. I want to go everywhere with you and you and you and you. . .
everywhere and everywhere forever . . .
I want to follow fun.”
Communing on a commune would suit her fine,
but some overestimate her need to include.
One fine day, watch her when the pack is running off the cliff
hurling their bodies into the sea,
she’ll run along — but stop on a dime,
peer at the surf and pounding rock below;
watch the bodies twist with disgust.
Suddenly her common sense and honor burns,
she’ll turn and leave the chase, slowly walk home alone,
keeping her own counsel.
The next time the lemming gang goes on a tear,
She might race,
but usually she’ll withdraw for keeps and refuse to budge,
Wistfully she’ll bake scones instead.
“I don’t see their point,
I guess I’m always out of fashion.”
But it is the plainness of these actions that sets her apart
and her embrace of us makes life worth living .
She is our resilient friend
Rose of Sharon.
In her bloom we count ourselves lucky.
She is magnificent.
She is magnificent.
Ode to Rose of Sharon is a tribute to a friend upon her 80th birthday.
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