Wisteria
by Dick Allen
The French, I read somewhere,
think cellar door
most beautiful English.
My father’s cellar door
was ugly, unpainted.
It led to the furnace.
But in your name
what’s named is also
wistful, mysterious
as butterflies called
Morning Cloak, Comma,
Dun Skipper, Spring Azure.
In your vine’s bending
a playful history
of where you’ve been.
In your tapering clusters,
pure purple spirals,
labyrinth meanings.
How your spring blossoms
tier over each other.
Ties of close families.
So it’s no wonder
the Japanese call you
“Poet’s Ecstasy,”
to be humble, cavort,
silly, excessive,
ringlets wind –tossing,
that in Japanese stories
you desire, greatly,
cupfuls of sake,
as now, at my window,
your syllable petals
dissolve on my tongue.