Nothing Stays Put

　　by Amy Clampitt

　　 In memory of Father Flye， 1884-1985

　　 The strange and wonderful are too much with us.

　　 The protea of the antipodes--a great，

　　 globed， blazing honeybee of a bloom--

　　 for sale in the supermarket！ We are in

　　 our decadence， we are not entitled.

　　 What have we done to deserve

　　 all the produce of the tropics--

　　 this fiery trove， the largesse of it

　　 heaped up like cannonballs， these pineapples， bossed

　　 and crested， standing like troops at attention，

　　 these tiers， these balconies of green， festoons

　　 grown sumptuous with stoop labor？

　　 The exotic is everywhere， it comes to us

　　 before there is a yen or a need for it. The green-

　　 grocers， uptown and down， are from South Korea.

　　 Orchids， opulence by the pailful， just slightly

　　 fatigued by the plane trip from Hawaii， are

　　 disposed on the sidewalks； alstroemerias， freesias

　　 fattened a bit in translation from overseas； gladioli

　　 likewise estranged from their piercingancestral crimson；

　　 as well as， less altered from the original blue cornflower

　　 of the roadsides and railway embankments of Europe， these

　　 bachelor's buttons. But it isn't the railway embankments

　　 their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of， it's

　　 a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos，

　　 snapdragon， nasturtium， bloodsilk red poppies，

　　 in my grandmother's garden： a prairie childhood，

　　 the grassland shorn， overlaid with a grid，

　　 unsealed， furrowed， harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses，

　　 their massive corduroy， their wavering feltings embroidered

　　 here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas

　　 on a courthouse lawn， by a love knot， a cross stitch

　　 of living matter， sown and tended by women，

　　 nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful，

　　 beneath whose hands what had been alien begins，

　　 as it alters， to grow as though it were indigenous.

　　 But at this remove what I think of as

　　 strange and wonderful， strolling the side streets of Manhattan

　　 on an April afternoon， seeinghybrid pear trees in blossom，

　　 a tossing， vertiginous colonnade of foam， up above--

　　 is the white petalfall， the warm snowdrift

　　 of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood.

　　 Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.

　　 All that we know， that we're

　　 made of， is motion