The First Lesson
Why can’t I love the rhododendron
for not being forsythia? Why do I clothe them
in their differences and not say they’re both flowering shrubs?
Rather, I wait for the flower of the rhododendron
and for the chance to see, huge and round,
its differently-shaped flower-bud against the thinner spike
of the earlier forsythia’s baked-on yellow color.
I’ve learned nothing is ordinary in ordinary days
when I thought ordinary was rarely worth waiting for,
but each begins with the steadfastness of blue-green cypress,
the cycling of mourning, winter’s blank spaces
where emptiness still lives, and in spring, each flower
will come to yield its color to lush green leaves and confirm
color is never endless. Yet color thrives
before their end. For the moment, I wish I were a flower—
when ordinary is treasured, however briefly,
and bows to just the way it is. In their care,
I see myself, my children in each moment,
yet know just how briefly color stays,
how loss is loss, especially when taken early,
but how much is always part of what continues.
Listen to this piece
Read by Hollow and Sky editor Avriel Mejrah
SR Inciardi was born in New York City. His poetry has appeared in the USA, Europe, India and Australia. He currently has three books of poetry listed on Amazon. A fourth book is coming soon.