by Stanley Plumly

    Some——the ones with fish names——grow so north

    they last a month， six weeks at most.

    Some others， named for the fields they look like，

    last longer， smaller.

    And these， in particular， whether trout¹ or corn lily，

    onion or bellwort， just cut

    this morning and standing² open in tapwater in the kitchen，

    will close with the sun.

    It is June， wildflowers on the table.

    They are fresh an hour ago， like sliced lemons，

    with the whole day ahead of them.

    They could be common mayflower lilies of the valley，

    day lilies， or the clustering Canada， large， gold，

    long-stemmed as pasture roses， belled out over the vase——

    or maybe Solomon's seal， the petals³

    ranged in small toy pairs

    or starry⁴， tipped at the head like weeds.

    They could be anonymous⁵ as weeds.

    They are， in fact， the several names of the same thing，

    lilies of the field， butter-and-eggs，

    toadflax almost， the way the whites and yellows juxtapose，

    and have "the look of flowers that are looked at，"

    rooted as they are in water， glass， and air.

    I remember the summer I picked everything，

    flower and wildflower， singled them out in jars

    with a name attached. And when they had dried as stubborn

    as paper I put them on pages and named them again.

    They were all lilies， even the hyacinth，

    even the great pale flower in the hand of the dead.

    I picked it， kept it in the book for years

    before I knew who she was，

    her face lily-white， kissed and dry and cold.

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