Kimberly Johnson: Sonnet
No seduction in the hothouse, its aisles of deliberate orchids only heave beneath ceiling fans. The horticulturist's a bawd--her monstrous offspring affront with chromatic perfection, charm in array. But when the orange orchard blossoms, I am thrown. Raptures in the garden? Never once did rows of carrot so well-weeded yield a swoon. Beware that flim-flam man, the farmer, I grouse in passing, sowing season by season an almanac theology. But when orange blossoms wave in pneumatic arcades, I dither. I coo. I hallelu.
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I enjoy orange blossoms, too. They simply serve, like all fruit and vegetable flowers, to alert us to nourishing foods in a matter of weeks or months. However, as one who has always enjoyed orchids in greenhouses or in a native habitat, this poem does not succeed in convincing me that orchids seduce or suggest a “deliberate” manner. Those who cultivate them do so with great care and knowledge. I say all this fully aware that a poem need not be entirely based on fact. Ms. Johnson celebrates carrots while I have celebrated orchids for many decades. I am glad that SLATE admires her work.
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