{I publish this on Saint Patrick’s Day, March 17th. This is a day celebrated throughout the US, with great festivities, parades, carousing, and toasting, by those descended from Irish immigrants, and also by those who just love to carouse.
The holiday this year seems, by contrast, more somber. Parades have been cancelled, bars and restaurants, closed to large gatherings, and private gatherings discouraged. All to prevent the spread of Coronavirus. One cannot help but miss the simple pleasures of being close to others, even if this is only for a season, and for a very good reason.
Green is a color associated with St Patrick’s Day, perhaps because the shamrock, most notably, the rare four-leafed clover, is green.
Purple and gold are used in the vestments that priests wear in the Catholic church during Lent, the forty days starting the day after Mardi Gras and leading up to Easter. It is supposed to be a period of fasting and repentance, but is probably honored mostly in the breach in this country. The fact that Coronavirus has arrived and is expected to be at its worst in this country during Lent, makes it feel as if we are being punished for our many sins.
Irises, wet-footed flowers that live on the edge of lakes and ponds, are also blooming right now in North Florida, a rare treat. One can’t help but be jealous of how they clump together in groups, carousing, celebrating the day, in our place.
Listen to the scientists. Stay safe. And try to enjoy your families, if you are all stuck at home during this time. My condolences to anyone who has lost a loved one to this horrible disease. May they join, for their valor and suffering, your own belief’s equivalent, of the parade of saints. Thanks again for coming by to read.}
Green, capped with purple and gold:
Splashy church frocks and irises.
Lilac petals, rising high like a priest’s collar,
Flourishing, unfurling
Yellow and white;
Explaining God’s impenetrable will.
Wading in shallows.
Defining one flower, by another.
Lenten dirge.
The price we pay, this time, is high.
The collection plate is full.
Galloping along towards summer,
Towards imminent extinction,
For sport, we’re slain.
Cut down in our prime.
Jousting, with a measly microbe.
Under the apse,
Ephemeral,
Shaded by columns, huddling–
Irises, by the bland fence post–
We shudder, strutting our excellence.
In our splendor, glorifying.
Aspirations courting death.
The clock and calendar agree,
(Though we’ll abstain–forbidden fruit)
It’s time to cheer,
To raise a toast:
To us.
To better times.
To those to come,
Who congregate
Embrace and kiss, unabashed.
Who wipe away our taboo tears,
And bury the bodies that fall.
Copyright Andrea LeDew 2020
For another flower poem, read Of Roses.
I’ve been away from the Church for so long, it didn’t dawn on me that the current crisis coincides with Lent.
Yes it is an odd coincidence. Not trying to stoke the frenzy of conspiracy theories and opportunistic blaming here, though. Just a reminder that man is a frail creature and sometimes encounters a worthy opponent, no matter how small it may be.
I understand.