On an Okra Flower

A pollinating wasp sliding f rom white lip to pur ple darkness, the shadow-hear t so deep inside, the plant, itself, tall Af r ican in the k itchen garden’s last row, speak s of passage and endurance, those far too common abstractions, made real here in the summer heat.

L et it lead us, ser ve as a g uide, tell how each str uggle leads to bliss and what to bless when we decide to see the past and present blend into what we need to know —a mind aware or in a trance?— what to keep close, what to shun, made real here in the summer heat.

W hat song can a wasp sing gliding the flower’s dark throat? A long k iss like winged tong ues tangled deep inside — a blind passion, an obsession. I hear it as a prayer now, music for the world ’s whirling dance. Sound, sight and scent. A n or ison made real here in the summer heat. — Paul Jones