Chrysanthemum.
Of course she had to pick the name that is the hardest to spell, one of those blossoms that need to be Googled before you can put it in print.
Where does the "y" go again?
A few weeks ago I introduced and explained a metaphorical poetic garden filled with Delicate Fucking Flowers. (There will be an explaination for why we're plucking them at all...eventually.) Today, Chrysanthemum joins Tobacco Blossom, Dearie in the DFF bouquet, though her debut is unintentional.
Chrysanthemum is our youngest flower at the tender age of 16. She started writing me when this blog first debuted and has since made me spit-take coffee, cock my head sideways at her advanced insight and reminded me why I wouldn't go back to being 16 and in high school if you offered me $10 million dollars. She did it all via a daisy chain of both wry and aching emails.
When the following snippet appeared in one of the most recent Gmail messages, I couldn't help but think it fit the bill of accidental poetry, one of my favorite genres ever:
Our house is small,
and Cape Cod,
and every newly-weds’ dream.
The blue shutters
just scream “come live in me,”
as if shutters could scream.
Our landscaping is pristine,
and everything done by hand.
Our hands.
The hands of my
dyfunctionally perfect,
still married,
single child
family.
There are flowers in the lawn.
IN THE LAWN.
I think the house belongs
somewhere in
a coastal Massachusetts town,
with landing seagulls
and fireworks over the bay
on The Fourth of July.
When my parents got married they had a painting made of it.
A painting.
Of our house.
Hanging in the front entryway.
Just in case you missed it
before you came inside.
This girl is 16. I freaking love her. And her real, intentional poetry debut will sprout up on the blog shortly.
