Rhododendrons in Full Bloom

A bush along the front of our house grew
to be twelve feet tall, a giant of vibrant violet.

A solitary black girl, I was wealthy
in the presence of rhododendrons ponticum

boisterous bouquets of color almost immoral.
Showy hussies, brazen as flappers sans underpants.

I should have learned how to be a woman
from rhododendrons. I should have learned

how to be bold and daring and not give a damn.
Even as a youth, I knew I was seeing something

spectacular—fireworks of petals against stems and
dark-olive leaves. Simple dew drops or rain drops

dripping were intoxication without liquor.
What is spring without the bloom of rhododendrons

without the excess, without the lavishness, without
the opulent fuchsia and iridescent purples unashamed?

And if I had a daughter, I would tell her be your bold, exuberant
self. Let no one quell you. Be the rhododendron’s full bloom.

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Salt

Did we judge her too harshly, Lot’s wife,
walking away from everything she knew?
We become attached to places and possessions
in ways we never imagined. Our feet drag
when we think of leaving the familiar
as though they pull against a magnetic force.
No matter how dismal, the unknown
is more terrifying than the known.
So, we wade into our future as though
walking into quicksand or bog.
Who among us would not have
looked feeling the old life tugging
us back to what we left behind—
only to be turned into a pillar of salt?

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