Dahlias

They arrive on my desk, a clear demonstrative bunch
prickly and blood-red, passion's messengers

even without your note — three years ago when
dahlias were in bloom — making the room stand back,

and the little of everything on the mantel, sweet pea
and freesia, larkspur, bristly mourning bride

rooted in a single thickness of glass stones.
The flowers bell like balls in a Galton board, figures

of chance, the rain stopping, sun glancing off
the gilded slope of a pagoda, its reach released in cloud.

And in the garden, a fat bee humming in the trumpet
of a squash flower fumbles with information like a god.

Copyright © 2007 Robert McNamara All rights reserved
from The Body & The Day
David Robert Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission