Cosmos

Please Don't

tell the flowers—they think
the sun loves them.
The grass is under the same
simple-minded impression

about the rain, the fog, the dew.
And when the wind blows,
it feels so good
they lose control of themselves

and swobtoggle wildly
around, bumping accidentally into their
slender neighbors.
Forgetful little lotus-eaters,

solar-powered
hydroholics, drawing nourishment up
through stems into their
thin green skin,

high on the expensive
chemistry of mitochondrial explosion,
believing that the dirt
loves them, the night, the stars—

reaching down a little deeper
with their pale albino roots,
all Dizzy
Gillespie with the utter
sufficiency of everything.

They don't imagine lawn
mowers, the four stomachs
of the cow, or human beings with boots
who stop to marvel

at their exquisite
flexibility and color.
They persist in their soft-headed

hallucination of happiness.
But please don't mention it.
Not yet. Tell me
what would you possibly gain

from being right?


Please Don't, by Tony Hoagland


Exactly. Nothing to gain here. I can easily imagine how this conversation looks; the person who feels obliged to inform a flower about how different things will be for them when they grow up, often in a "just you wait" sort of tone, and the looks they get in return from the flower, who already knows quite a bit about lawn mowers and the four stomachs of the cow. This is the sort of flower who has trouble fitting in with other the other blossoms, who seem so hopelessly stupid and naive. No wonder this flower doesn't know how to swobtoggle appropriately.