Dear father, in the dream I opened the basket
with a wooden lid carved in the shape of a lizard,
and found the strawflower leis I'd bought
from the market in our city almost completely
crumbled to bits. Who gave them the name "Everlasting?"
Brittle orange, they hang from every vendor's pole
beside macrame hammocks and crocheted vests, above
shelves lined with souvenirs-- those horrible wooden men
waiting for a hand to lift the barrels wrapped around
their hips so they can spring into action. One could
write essays on such relics and their provenance; but
the only voice I can find prefers to sing in a key
closer to lullaby or elegy: that is, I mourn for
the flowers; for you, asleep in the faraway hills.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.