Some Women Get Roses

By Elizabeth Ebert

Some women get roses! 

Velvet of petal and long of stem, 

Placed in a box like a precious gem. 

Brought by a man from the florist’s place, 

Beautifully right for a crystal vase. 

I get crocuses! 

Only a little bunch, of course, 

Picked by a man on a saddle horse. 

Slightly wilted and (please don’t laugh.) 

Smelling a lot like baby calf. 

Some women get orchids! 

Pal with a delicate, mottled throat, 

Made to pin on a sable coat 

That is slipped on over a Dior gown, 

For a drive in a limousine uptown. 

I get sunflowers! 

Strong and sturdy, and bright and bold, 

Reflecting the prairie sun’s own gold. 

I stick them up in my old hat brim 

And go for a pickup ride with him. 

Now hothouse flowers have their place, I know, 

And they’re beautiful! But I wouldn’t trade 

For one bluebell plucked from the morning grass 

And, wet with dew, on my pillow laid. 

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