In memory of Father Flye， 1884-1985

    The strange and wonderful are too much with us.

    The protea of the antipodes——a great，

    globed， blazing honeybee of a bloom——

    for sale in the supermarket！ We are in

    our decadence， we are not entitled.

    What have we done to deserve

    all the produce of the tropics——

    this fiery trove， the largesse of it

    heaped up like cannonballs， these pineapples， bossed

    and crested， standing like troops at attention，

    these tiers， these balconies of green， festoons

    grown sumptuous with stoop labor？

    The exotic is everywhere， it comes to us

    before there is a yen or a need for it. The green-

    grocers， uptown and down， are from South Korea.

    Orchids， opulence by the pailful， just slightly

    fatigued by the plane trip from Hawaii， are

    disposed on the sidewalks； alstroemerias， freesias

    fattened a bit in translation from overseas； gladioli

    likewise estranged from their piercing ancestral crimson；

    as well as， less altered from the original blue cornflower

    of the roadsides and railway embankments of Europe， these

    bachelor's buttons. But it isn't the railway embankments

    their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of， it's

    a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos，

    snapdragon， nasturtium， bloodsilk red poppies，

    in my grandmother's garden： a prairie childhood，

    the grassland shorn， overlaid with a grid，

    unsealed， furrowed， harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses，

    their massive corduroy， their wavering feltings embroidered

    here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas

    on a courthouse lawn， by a love knot， a cross stitch

    of living matter， sown and tended by women，

    nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful，

    beneath whose hands what had been alien begins，

    as it alters， to grow as though it were indigenous.

    But at this remove what I think of as

    strange and wonderful， strolling the side streets of Manhattan

    on an April afternoon， seeing hybrid pear trees in blossom，

    a tossing， vertiginous colonnade of foam， up above——

    is the white petalfall， the warm snowdrift

    of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood.

    Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.

    All that we know， that we're

    made of， is motion