Jubilee

No seduction in the hothouse, its aisles
of deliberate orchids heave only
beneath ceiling fans. The horticulturist's
a bawd: her monstrous offspring affront
with chromatic perfection, charm in array.

But when the orange orchard blossoms,
I am ravished.

Raptures in the garden? Never once did rows
of carrot so well-weeded yield
a swoon. Damn that flim-flam man,
the farmer, I flare from the fenceline, sowing
season by season an almanac theology.

But when orange blossoms wave
in pneumatic arcades, I dither. I coo. I hallelu.

Copyright © 2008 Kimberly Johnson All rights reserved
from A Metaphorical God
Persea Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission