PANSIES

by David D. Gilbaugh

When I was six
and my brother was seven,
he made me cry today.

"You pansy," he said.
"You're the pansy," I replied,
with my fist full of leaves
down the back of his shirt.
"You die you pansy," he yelled,

But he was wrong,
with dirt down the back
of my underpants,
chasing me as I looked back,
peering through the screen door
of our minds.
. . . .

I closed my eyes today
and I saw a pansy with white petals
spinning like a windmill
turning summer 's time.

It was complete
and filled with nectar
full and flowing,
descending to its petal's tips;
dripping, falling;
one upon my face.

I touched the wet verb
born new there;
streaming down my cheek,
wetting cracking leather;
now soft, supple,
and alive;

long-suffering,
turning on the words
of pansies be.