The White Rose of the West
The heliotropic nature of the
world at large turns our faces to the West
so some of that warmth will find us: Maureen,
urging us to behave and write our best
because her favorite species: the crested
poetry: flowers cannot bloom on rain
alone, and all living things are nestled
in the caesura of her verse, where cranes
of progress cannot drop things on them. Shame
on ourselves when we're not being rosy,
but we know how to turn it around: shame
itself finds itself shamed by her poesy.
And if anyone tells her she's wonky,
please remind her she's my fav'rite honky.