The Freesias Will Know
Isn’t it true—
the poems I write
circle slowly
back to me?
the poems I write
circle slowly
back to me?
Take me, please,
to the poets’ tombs.
Let me wander
among quiet stones.
to the poets’ tombs.
Let me wander
among quiet stones.
Lilac and berry tones—
a place where I belong.
a place where I belong.
A field of freesias,
pale and near—
the kind of place
that understands a tear.
pale and near—
the kind of place
that understands a tear.
I may leave soon,
but not before
I ask my muse
what makes my core.
but not before
I ask my muse
what makes my core.
What crawls beneath these ribs
that should not be?
A quiet ache,
like a rising sea.
that should not be?
A quiet ache,
like a rising sea.
Pain comes in waves—
soft, yet slow—
enough to halt
where feet would go.
soft, yet slow—
enough to halt
where feet would go.
This trip grows heavy.
Too heavy for show,
for shining rooms
and names I barely know.
Too heavy for show,
for shining rooms
and names I barely know.
Tell me, my love—
what is the worth
of fragile lines
I offer the world?
what is the worth
of fragile lines
I offer the world?
The freesias lean
in patient air,
as if they know
why I am here.
in patient air,
as if they know
why I am here.
I search for crimson hues
and their solemn glow—
the quiet truth
a lone heart knows.
and their solemn glow—
the quiet truth
a lone heart knows.
I want to stand in the grass
and watch the sun rise,
slow as a thought
returning twice.
and watch the sun rise,
slow as a thought
returning twice.
For years I stayed still—
page after page—
living somewhere
between youth and age.
page after page—
living somewhere
between youth and age.
And tonight
I need you near,
not as a stranger,
but someone who hears.
I need you near,
not as a stranger,
but someone who hears.
Once, a red rose
Sprouted from the ground.
No one was there
to turn around.
Sprouted from the ground.
No one was there
to turn around.
No voice to praise it.
No post to send.
Just quiet beauty,
without pretend.
No post to send.
Just quiet beauty,
without pretend.
And near it once
a freesia grew—
soft as a promise
nobody knew.
a freesia grew—
soft as a promise
nobody knew.
I carried that moment
like hidden light—
a bloom that lived
outside of sight.
like hidden light—
a bloom that lived
outside of sight.
Perhaps I’ll recall it
in precipice of pools,
thinking of love
and the ache it fuels.
in precipice of pools,
thinking of love
and the ache it fuels.
The freesias will know
what I tried to say. Some flowers bloom unseen.
So do some poems.
what I tried to say. Some flowers bloom unseen.
So do some poems.
Curious where these stories came from? Read the inspiration behind this poem here:
[…] The Freesias Will Know belongs to the latter. […]