Evelyn Judy Buehler

March 18, 1953 - Chicago

A Blossoming

Although I had always adored flowers, I had never had a green thumb;
And while I tried awfully hard, my efforts always had sorry outcomes.

Like the sorrow of old garden roses, during the unanticipated drought,
Or storms that send you fleeing homewards, with trepidation and doubt.

It is irony that my name is Jasmine, for I'd always wanted a garden,
As warm meadows dream of riotous blooms, where blooms have not been!

And how I envied the lucky ones, nurturing blossoms so effortlessly,
Like sunset colors which multiply our joys, each evening generously.

My friends had planted flowers for me, which did not survive my care,
Like hurrying to answer the doorbell ring, to discover no one is there.

The best intentions in the world, without wisdom can come to nought,
Like the heavens sending forth the rainbow, as a kindly afterthought!

Yet my passion for flowers never died, like the many unrequited ones;
Whom, bereft of their loved one, must express love in other tongues.

I was the manager at a large nursery, and I really enjoyed my work,
As an art museum's sole director, spends idle hours adoring artwork!

If one can never reach distant nebulae, or the stars that they love,
There remains a more accessible radiance, of a pale full moon above.

One weekend day I went on a tour, of beautiful neighborhood gardens,
Full of drama and suspense, planned by people with floral ambitions.

I wandered around in an ecstasy, and I saw so many varieties of blooms,
And in every conceivable shade, emitting a miscellany of exotic fumes.

The garden tour was a walking one, and I tangoed from one to another,
In the same way that nature tangoes, in the beautiful house of summer!

Among all the luscious gardens, there were some that touched my heart,
As tree limbs, with their curvaceous trajectories, create a natural art.

At last I reached the final garden, but there was something wrong here,
As if it'd been altered by magic, in its sheer perfection it was queer!

All the roses were exactly the same, in size, in shape, and in shade,
And emitted identical aromas, which was strangely boring, I'm afraid.

These things were true of each flower type, from carnations to daisies,
With far too much uniformity, and so perfect, they failed to please!

Blooms were also grouped in colors, from creamy to deep purple black,
Like a meteoric rise to power, from which there'll be no coming back.

Everything was so unblemished, with a notable absence of wilted blooms,
Like an absence during ebony nighttime, of our beloved irregular moon!

I saw that outrageous excess perfection, is unnatural, flawed and ugly,
For there's no perfection in nature, which makes it winsome and comely.

It seemed I had been striving too hard, in my summer house of the sun,
When I should have just relished gardening, while having my flowery fun!

As the eternity known as time, relishes one mellow and ephemeral hour,
When the red pompadours visit the fields, of yellow, regal sunflowers.

I never discovered what magic, had caused the garden visions I had seen,
I only knew I no longer dreamed of, the garden that should not have been!

These days I have a beautiful garden, with more than a touch of the wild,
For even the most formal of gardens, happen to be lush wilderness' child!
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