The Hidden

You never broke a stem
Or scalpeled any petal
When you kneeled to reach beneath those flowers
Umbraged from the light;
Tickling them, once or twice,
Like a mother on her children’s chin…
You were the evidence that someone in the universe
Cared beyond the lure of brilliant colors,
And panicles woven into clustering vines
Through summer stakes and gates;
Unlike artists who were never mindful
Of the dark side of the moon…
There is an underside in everything
Pulsing in transparencies;
The line of those we see
Through frosted shower doors,
Milked white of detailed outlines.
White-washed by a film of soap –
Where you became the backside of a flower
And the darkside of the moon.

Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate