Tuesday Poem: published by Enright House in 1992

Emily's Gift

was the metaphor,

there all along at our feet,

their small petaled heads

poking out of the grass

like yellow lights

that say: Slow down.

Stop, and think awhile.

Look at them all,

how they lean for the sun

just like us.

If they're lucky, I thought,

they do their sweet time unmolested,

are never subjected to the fork-tongued weeder,

the blade of the mower, the poisons

that leave you twisted and dying

in the service of civilization.

Here is a white spirit,

my daughter said to me. It was evening

and she was handing me one, old and

fragile; it curled in my palm.

Don't let it blow away just yet, she whispered.

Let's make it last as long as we can.