Petunias (On Leaving Home) By Taylor Ingrassia
There is a particular way in which
My home’s petunias glow
Early on summer mornings
That gives the sun a somehow
Heightened sense of power:
Power to turn these small flowers—
Purple petals open as if to
Catch the light, or maybe release it—
Into stars of their own kind,
In the dawn’s repose.
When the sun gleams from
Just above the rooftops,
The petunias refract its light
Like falling rain, alight
In brighter, delicate shades,
Stained glass
Held suspended from shattering
By long stalks erupting wildly
From the earth.
Through their paper-thin petals
I see a round bee resting nimbly,
Balancing carefully on the flowers
That later will detach with ease
But now stand firm
With unforeseen strength
To allow the bee to drink.
I could drink in the sight
At each daybreak,
(From behind finger-stained glass
Or simply sitting on the doorstep)
Watching singing birds depart for other places
As I sit and wait for those petals to drop.
I could stay here, day in and day out,
Resting on the rough-textured brick
Or beneath a paper-thin blanket,
Sleeping, waking, turning over, sleeping—
Day in and day out,
Flowers falling and unfurling and standing tall and falling—
We planted this garden summers ago.
What was once a few stalks in the earth
Has now become an untamed forest of
Long green leaf and purple rain.
Everyone warned the seeds would spread quickly,
But I guess— I didn’t want to trim them back.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that
I could stay. I could stay
Day in and day out
And let time unfurl
Like petunia petals,
Let purple summertime sing to me
Wind-whispered lullabies and symphonies as I
Sleep, wake, turn over, sleep—
But what use was planting this garden in me
If I keep trimming it back?
I stand in the garden
With two feet in the dirt below me,
Two feet that grew large without my noticing.
I stand with a daunting sky before me.
It looms on a horizon whose coming
I saw but never thought I would reach.
I guess what I’ve always thought is that
The skin on my hands was too
Paper-thin to hold myself up.
But my hands have grown large without my noticing.
I stand with this daunting sky before me,
And the safety of the garden behind,
Yet, despite uncertainties and insecurities,
I now know that I have grown
As tall as these perennial petunias—
Reaching upwards to catch the light,
Or maybe to release it, like the sun!—
And no matter where I allow my leaves to spread
I can grow a garden to hold them.
I could stay.
And maybe I cannot detach with ease.
But if I depart with the birds into the sky ahead,
I know this garden home will be with me.
I will unfurl and stand tall and fall and unfurl
Petals as walls, walls that will form
A new home—within me.
