Dianthus

1 Minute Read Time

Even in the dark, their flowers tilt 
toward the last place they felt the light.
They bend on narrow stems, their blossoms 
fringed like the hems of party dresses.
We have waited too long to plant them. 
So they bloom in pots on our patio, 
the frost-time over now, and they lean
toward summer, long months of scorch 
and blaze.
                    Standing near the dianthus,
I am almost an optimist—they still hold 
warmth and seem to believe in
its imminence, the certainty of days. 
What do they know of cause or effect? 
What do they know of my bleak 
philosophy? Five-petaled and pinked,
as if some god took scissors to their edges, 
they will need soil soon, room to spread out. 
Yes, I am concerned: Tomorrow the sun 
might not dazzle somewhere above us.
But the dianthus know a thing or two 
about the divine.
                                 Among the quilled leaves, 
they seem indifferent to whichever fat tyrant
shuffles like a beetle over the rocks, those stony, 
slick surfaces. They slant together
unbothered by night, all equally inclined 
toward the same faith—that nothing
will stop the light from returning 
to them, again and again and again.

Jehanne Dubrow

is the author of three books of nonfiction, ten poetry collections, and a craft book, The Wounded Line: A Guide to Writing Poems of Trauma (University of New Mexico Press, 2025). She is a Distinguished Research Professor and a Professor of Creative Writing at the University of North Texas.

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