What’s more here than now!
My neighbor’s bed of tulips,
rows crowded into rows.
Not Elizabeth’s rainbow
bilge, gas and oil between
her rowboat’s struts.
Not a serrated knife’s leftover
scales. Oh the scales she found
in a scene’s words! I find
each time I walk by his flowering
brushes, these more than purple
blossoming cups. I could look
up their names. Even if Elizabeth
didn’t name her boat’s fish,
leaving something for us to do
if we needed to. If a moment is
more than walking by and seeing
his work and theirs. What it takes
to break through his mounded
soil to find their names.
This book says they’re called,
Queen of the Night, Red Riding Hood,
Kolpakowskiana, the one with two blooms,
I have to pronounce more than twice.
Isn’t a name how we remember
or not? Here, I have to say, I don’t
know my neighbor’s. Now is his time
--Gary Margolis, Cornwall