They grew among the tall wild grasses and thickets of trees
On the hillsides and by the creeks,
Long, twisting vines dotted with spry purple flowers.
They blanketed the edges of our acre, down steep banks
Near the water, and I'd slide down to pick them.
Ballerina flowers, I called them, not knowing their
Real name, for they looked like miniature dancers
In striped tutus of lavender and white and deep purple and green,
Their yellow, spotted arms contorted in expressions of
Some emotional outburst, on the stage that was
A warm, humid summer afternoon,
Where haze hung in the air so heavily
That you could see its edges as it
Brushed up against the treetops
And skirted the wet asphalt
After a short, violent rainstorm.
I plucked them and saved them in juice glasses of fresh water,
And gave them to the lady who picked us up for camp,
And to my counselors, teenage hippie girls who stuck them in their
Long, blond hair.
I saw them everywhere in those days,
The purple ballerina flowers,
Dancing among shrubs and vines and even the banks of the big creek
That ran through our camp.
I could pick an armful of flowers, a hundred or so,
Long stalks of them, and still,
There would be plenty more.
I forgot about the flowers as the years passed.
If they danced nearby in their striped tutus,
I did not see them.
And then, one day, I thought about them, and looked around me, and
Realized that
I did not see them at all.
Anywhere.
The thickly grassed creek banks were eroded, and the
Densely forested passageways behind our old house
And around my camp, and along all the streets of
Our city, were wide and empty and sparse.
Where once you only saw brush and leaves and branches,
You now could see only the newly built houses and office buildings and roads,
The old growth replaced by manicured lawns and identical lipstick pink rose bushes
Watered on a strict schedule by the buried sprinklers that popped up from the ground.
I began to think intensely about how much I wanted to see them again,
My friends from childhood, who were in hiding,
So I began to look for them.
I drove around the city, looking in vain, even looking in the old places,
Where they had not yet uprooted the oaks and pines,
Where old houses still stood,
Where the creek, though much wider now and almost unrecognizable
Dotted with trash floating down from the new people living upstream,
Still flowed.
But they were not there.
I discovered that they were not called ballerina flowers, but
Passionflowers, passiflora incarnata.
Their stalks and stripes and spots were meant to have religious significance,
Ancient numerology that evoked a spiritual passion,
Meanings that would have been lost on a small girl who
Merely thought the blossoms looked like the tulle costumes
She wore at her dancing recitals.
I learned that these wild flowers grew on vines almost everywhere,
In many parts of the world, and inspired people in many cultures,
With their symbolism, their beauty, their charm,
Yet in my city they were now gone.
Nowhere to be found.
As the old places were gone too, replaced by
Something more regimented, sanitized, organized.
There was nothing wild left anymore, no places where wild flowers could grow.
And then, one day, driving down one of the old roads, next to a huge parking lot,
An asphalt sea, I saw a flash of lavender,
Peeking out at me.
I turned the car around and pulled over on the side of this road, now wider
Than it was years ago, and lined with shopping centers and subdivisions.
I saw a thick crop of leaves, bushes and weeds and twisting vines,
And the trunks of trees, not dying, but weary with age and neglect.
And among all this riot of green was one single vine,
Punctuating the weeds, insisting on facing the sun once again.
They were dancing in their colorful bristles and juicy stalks.
I slid, then crawled, down a hillside to reach them,
Hitchhikers attaching to my pants and noxious ivy tickling my skin.
I plucked a few, leaving the vine to grow, but taking just a few,
Home with me, for I could hardly believe that I had found my flower again.
Within a few days the blossoms in my apartment had withered and died.
I moved away and no longer drove down that old road where I had seen the flowers.
I no longer see them anywhere.
I only see the landscaped lawns and the identical lipstick pink rose bushes and the
Fields of pine straw and wood chippings where
Grass and wild weeds once grew.
I no longer see the passionflowers and I no longer search for them.
But I know that they are out there,
And I will see them again one day.
On the hillsides and by the creeks,
Long, twisting vines dotted with spry purple flowers.
They blanketed the edges of our acre, down steep banks
Near the water, and I'd slide down to pick them.
Ballerina flowers, I called them, not knowing their
Real name, for they looked like miniature dancers
In striped tutus of lavender and white and deep purple and green,
Their yellow, spotted arms contorted in expressions of
Some emotional outburst, on the stage that was
A warm, humid summer afternoon,
Where haze hung in the air so heavily
That you could see its edges as it
Brushed up against the treetops
And skirted the wet asphalt
After a short, violent rainstorm.
I plucked them and saved them in juice glasses of fresh water,
And gave them to the lady who picked us up for camp,
And to my counselors, teenage hippie girls who stuck them in their
Long, blond hair.
I saw them everywhere in those days,
The purple ballerina flowers,
Dancing among shrubs and vines and even the banks of the big creek
That ran through our camp.
I could pick an armful of flowers, a hundred or so,
Long stalks of them, and still,
There would be plenty more.
I forgot about the flowers as the years passed.
If they danced nearby in their striped tutus,
I did not see them.
And then, one day, I thought about them, and looked around me, and
Realized that
I did not see them at all.
Anywhere.
The thickly grassed creek banks were eroded, and the
Densely forested passageways behind our old house
And around my camp, and along all the streets of
Our city, were wide and empty and sparse.
Where once you only saw brush and leaves and branches,
You now could see only the newly built houses and office buildings and roads,
The old growth replaced by manicured lawns and identical lipstick pink rose bushes
Watered on a strict schedule by the buried sprinklers that popped up from the ground.
I began to think intensely about how much I wanted to see them again,
My friends from childhood, who were in hiding,
So I began to look for them.
I drove around the city, looking in vain, even looking in the old places,
Where they had not yet uprooted the oaks and pines,
Where old houses still stood,
Where the creek, though much wider now and almost unrecognizable
Dotted with trash floating down from the new people living upstream,
Still flowed.
But they were not there.
I discovered that they were not called ballerina flowers, but
Passionflowers, passiflora incarnata.
Their stalks and stripes and spots were meant to have religious significance,
Ancient numerology that evoked a spiritual passion,
Meanings that would have been lost on a small girl who
Merely thought the blossoms looked like the tulle costumes
She wore at her dancing recitals.
I learned that these wild flowers grew on vines almost everywhere,
In many parts of the world, and inspired people in many cultures,
With their symbolism, their beauty, their charm,
Yet in my city they were now gone.
Nowhere to be found.
As the old places were gone too, replaced by
Something more regimented, sanitized, organized.
There was nothing wild left anymore, no places where wild flowers could grow.
And then, one day, driving down one of the old roads, next to a huge parking lot,
An asphalt sea, I saw a flash of lavender,
Peeking out at me.
I turned the car around and pulled over on the side of this road, now wider
Than it was years ago, and lined with shopping centers and subdivisions.
I saw a thick crop of leaves, bushes and weeds and twisting vines,
And the trunks of trees, not dying, but weary with age and neglect.
And among all this riot of green was one single vine,
Punctuating the weeds, insisting on facing the sun once again.
They were dancing in their colorful bristles and juicy stalks.
I slid, then crawled, down a hillside to reach them,
Hitchhikers attaching to my pants and noxious ivy tickling my skin.
I plucked a few, leaving the vine to grow, but taking just a few,
Home with me, for I could hardly believe that I had found my flower again.
Within a few days the blossoms in my apartment had withered and died.
I moved away and no longer drove down that old road where I had seen the flowers.
I no longer see them anywhere.
I only see the landscaped lawns and the identical lipstick pink rose bushes and the
Fields of pine straw and wood chippings where
Grass and wild weeds once grew.
I no longer see the passionflowers and I no longer search for them.
But I know that they are out there,
And I will see them again one day.
