“Tragopogon pratensis [he-goat bearded in the field]…flowers close at midday..” Wildflowers by Roger Tory Peterson
In the meadow, regiment strong, Yellow-Goat’s Beard
stand for morning reveille, each one
facing the Sun, brightly bearded soldiers
on review, but sound asleep by two, adrift
in reverie from last nights revelry.
Tragopogon. I imagine you
as bearded Pan with flute carousing through
the night with Daisy and Black Eyed Susan while
Sweet William’s pogonotomy leaves him
a naked wallflower alone in the field.
I admire your ability to rise at dawn
to answer the bugle’s sound, and sympathize
with aching eyes in Sun’s harsh glare. But what
if you are called to duty after two?
I think I've finally made it on, Marshall. Now as to this poem, what does one say in the face of a poet's courage to take on "Tragopogon" and "pogonotomy" ? I can't even say these words in my head, let alone out loud. Well done!
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