Some women get roses!
Velvet of petal and long of stem,
Placed in a box like a precious gem.
Brought by a man from the florist’s place,
Beautifully right for a crystal vase.
I get crocuses!
Only a little bunch, of course,
Picked by a man on a saddle horse.
Slightly wilted and (please don’t laugh,)
Smelling a lot like baby calf.
Some women get orchids!
Pale with a delicate, mottled throat,
Made to pin on a sable coat
That is slipped on over a Dior gown,
For a drive in a limousine up town.
I get sunflowers!
Strong and sturdy, and bright and bold,
Reflecting the prairie sun’s own gold.
I stick them up in my old hat brim
And go for a pickup ride with him.
Now hothouse flowers have their place, I know,
And they’re beautiful! But I wouldn’t trade
For one bluebell plucked from the morning grass
And, wet with dew, on my pillow laid.
“Some Women Get Roses” was excerpted from Grand River Tales and Other Poems by Elizabeth Ebert from Thunderhawk, South Dakota.