Morning Glories
by: Mary Oliver
Blue and dark-blue
rose and deepest rose
white and pink they
are everywhere in the diligent
cornfield rising and swaying
in their reliable
finery in the little
fling of their bodies their
gear and tackle
all caught up in the cornstalks.
The reaper's story is the story
of endless work of
work careful and heavy but the
reaper cannot
separate them out there they
are in the story of his life
bright random useless
year after year
taken with the serious tons
weeds without value humorous
beautiful weeds.
Oliver sees worth in everything, including noxious weeds. The morning glories in this poem are also called bindweed, and they are definitely not welcome additions to any farm field or garden. Yet, they're vibrant and gorgeous. As Oliver writes, blue and dark-blue, rose and deepest rose, pink and white, they are everywhere. Common and beautiful.
I want to tell you about a poet friend of mine. Her name is Rosalie.
I've known Rosalie for over 30 years. We went to graduate school together. At the time, I thought I was going to be the next Flannery O'Connor, studying fiction writing while Rosalie was already writing and publishing poems. I never had a doubt that she was going to make a name for herself as a poet. Her work was heartbreaking and beautiful even back then.
Being a graduate student is a strange experience--a mixture of attending Hogwarts and Crunchem Hall Primary School from Matilda. There's magical moments (a class in Modern Women Poets, a poetry reading by Maya Angelou) and painful moments (postmodern literary theory, anyone?). And you're part of a band of misfits. Poets. Novelists. Short story writers. Essayists. If you survive, you're guaranteed to have PTDS--post-traumatic Derrida syndrome. (That's a really funny joke if you are/were an English major.)
I found out this afternoon that Rosalie is currently in hospice care. I'm not going to go into the details of her illness. That's not my story to tell. Her daughter, whom I've known since she was an infant, is caring for Rosalie at home.
So, I'm sitting here tonight, thinking of the classes I took with Rosalie. The shared stress of teaching composition to groups of surly freshman who didn't know comma splices from comma faults. (If you don't know, look it up.) The laughter and tears we shared. And, always, the writing. Her poems. My short stories.
Tragedy is common as noxious weeds. It's everywhere, sprouting and thriving. Is there beauty in tragedy? Perhaps. Speaking from experience, having a loved one in hospice is like distilling life down to its most necessary and important elements. I've had the privilege of being in the room when two of my sisters, my father, and my mother have died. Yes, it was a privilege to be able to hold their hands, tell them how much they were loved, and witness those last breaths that seemed almost like sighs of relief after long and winding roads. And then the peace that followed.
Of course, loss is painful, too. Always. Especially when it involves someone as relatively young as Rosalie. It's not easy to find beauty when you are in the weeds of grief. Yet, in Rosalie's final struggle, there is love. Deep, abiding, multiplying love.
Tonight, I raise my poet friend up to all of you. Remember her, if you have a moment. Know that she is a beautiful soul, on the cusp of blossoming into eternity. Say her name like a prayer. Give it breath.
Rosalie.
Saint Marty is going to let his friend have the last word tonight . . .
Before Leaving
by: Rosalie Sanara Petrouske
I climb black rocks with my daughter,
who scrambles ahead.
Close behind, I'm ready to reach out
should she stumble on the uneven surface.
At the top, we stare out at Superior,
breathing in the peace of lake and sky.
Below, a few waves crest white,
then lap
the million-year-old ledge beneath us.
On a far shore, sugar maple, hemlock, balsam fir
and white pine cover the island and grow down sides
of distant outcroppings.
Pairs of seagulls rise from the Bon Rocks.
They lift and circle,
dip and glide.
To the West, I point out Hogsback
and Sugarloaf, remnants of ancient glaciers.
Near us, a group of college students gather.
We watch as they leap from the highest point
to plummet into icy water.
This ritual repeats year after year.
Perhaps, I think, one day my daughter will dive
from this cliff into Superior's silvery-blue.
Her breath will catch when she rises
and gulps warm air,
yet her heart will beat again
when she discovers
effortless, she can fall and still rise.
For now, we simply sit side by side.
Sun warms our shoulder blades
and dampness gathers in the hollows
of our necks
where tendrils of hair separate to expose
skin to mid-afternoon light.
I tell her this place, this moment will always be part of us--
its mantra will call to us when we close our eyes
and still hear lake sounds, as if someone placed
a seashell against our ears.
We will carry it inside.
"Inside here?" she asks.
She places a hand across her chest.
Reaching, I take her other hand.
I squeeze, but she pulls away.
"Don't hold so tightly," she says.
❤️
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