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.
