Sharing the Perfume.
The garden is a bit too much for staid New Englanders.
Too lush. Too flowery. Too fragrant.
Too green too late in the season.
Gauguin in a season of Rockwell. a mismatch,
too alive in a world that wants, mostly,
simple safety, reassurance, that wants
a world so like themselves, Wyeth-like, soft,
beautiful, a bit boring.
But no, not me. I love this garden,
too much and all. And if I am honest,
I like the too lush more than the safe.
Don’t ask me why – I am sure psychologists
would have a field day with me, a case study
of someone who never, quite felt they fit,
while all the while, fitting fine.
It’s a dissonance perhaps, but that is fine.
I will live in my loud garden, glad for it,
glad for you here with me, sharing the perfume,
while strangers watch,
unsure, uncomfortable, and envious.
About this poem
Yes, a love poem. To the woman I love and to every woman who has been told they were “too much”. Likely, you are not.