LINES TO A GLADIOLUS 
Vague, arched against a fog-filled autumn sky, 
A Rainbow leads up from its Pot of Gold. 
WHAT GOLD IS THIS? These corms so dull and dry, 
What magic and what mystery do they hold 
Encompassed? Can these be the source whence climb 
Those sky borne evanescent color gleams, 
Ethereal as the clouds that frame and line 
Their path? Or are the Rainbows just the Cormels’ dreams 
Of glories that are past or yet to come 
When freed from sleep by rain and summer sun. 
‘Tis Spring: and with the warming sun and rain 
Down in the fertile earth, with humus filled, 
The Cormel feels the thrill of life again. 
And strong, with sturdy roots, begins to build 
Its sword-like leaves, which thrust to light and air. 
Green as the emerald, bathed by morning dew, 
Stoutly it stands, with tapered blades so fair. 
Mid lengthened days and summer heat it grew 
Erect and bold. Then through its blade so high 
lt sends a spike, bud-covered, toward the sky. 
Daily growth quickens and the flowers form. 
In bold array the florets open wide. 
WHAT MIRACLE IS THIS? Can dingy corm 
Transmute to color-ecstasy? What fair tide 
Has brought to light such valiant beauty rare? 
Opal fires, and mystic Sunset gleams; 
Blushes of Dawn; and the glisten of golden hair; 
The ruddy heart of a Ruby; velvet sheens; 
Blend in a tapestry so rich, it seems 
The Rainbow, fashioned from the Cormel’s dreams. 
—P. V. 
