She made it look so easy, my sister, when she paused before the trail hollowed into hemlock and oak, when she dipped from her waist as if nothing but hinge of skin and with fingers floating, grazing the patch of dandelions, she stroked the back of a bumblebee. We all doubt the real magic of this world. For so long I questioned the insistence of beauty in planted peonies, why so many maintain it's there. How some might see a flower so wondrous of pink and puce or heart-blossomed red, and I'd repulse, reject those petals of tottering globes as full baubles of stick shaped like cheap popcorn balls my sisters and I made as a kids, corn syrup glazing, baptizing our palms as we cupped and cupped, so desperate for sweetness. But now I see those peonies covered with ants and neighboring aphids, communing or broaching something others think baleful: an orgy of insects groping slick nectar so eagerly they'd think, how unseemly. But don't you see the mirror? Let's reconcile this religion of flowers— believe me, this too is a psalm: to fingertip the felt of an insect pollinating a weed is to praise & partner in all the green wonder that we are.
Michelle Menting’s poems and flash nonfictions have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Radar Poetry, New South, Fourth River, New Delta Review, and Glass, among others. She is the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Leaves Surface Like Skin (Terrapin Books), and has received awards and recognition for her written work from Sewanee, Bread Loaf, the National Park Service, the Maine Literary Awards, and other conferences, residencies, and honors. She lives in Maine.
**We do our best to preserve the integrity of each poem; however, due to programming limitations, some poems may read differently on a mobile phone and in certain browsers. For best viewing, use Chrome on a desktop/laptop.