Cornhusk Bouquet

No less real than those that grow
from soil and water and sunlight’s glow,
these are the flowers the women made.
They are less fragile––more slowly fade.
Fashioned from the husks of corn––
Their food’s protector, now reborn
by women’s hands–graceful and able,
into beauty to grace the table.

Their petals strong as the hands that twist
husks soaked in water lest they resist
the efforts of creators who
have dyed them yellow, red and blue.
Green for leaves and sepals formed
from nature trimmed and soaked and warmed
by the knees they shape them over––
hyacinth, roses and clover.

The breath of life stirs leaves and thrums
sunflowers, lilies and mums.
The gentle waving of petals hung
over paper scraps, bottles and dung
of a courtyard made from life and duty
and therefore not reserved for beauty.
Squalor from which beauty comes.
See how their bougainvillea hums?

Thunbergia’s petals and fragile pod
are lovely as if made by god.
Carried to market where they sell
to tourists who will love them well.
Crowded in vases, baskets or
in jardiniers on the sala floor.
These flowers will not tell the tale
of scissors and the soaking pail.

They stand completed, sure and tall
in a copper bucket in my hall.
As I pass, my garment’s hem
gently brushes over them
and stirs the powdery summer dust
that covers them in a fragile crust,
releasing a subtle bouquet
of corn and soil and the light of day.

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eight-3/