Bouquet Making

The back story, please

Of those who ceased all work at forty-three, 

Because of poetry

Or spent a life

Wooing that art

The full story, prithee

Of money or generosity

Supporting that pursuit 
And made possible besides,

Homemade breads

And glass encased solariums,

Warm,

Strewn with pillows and words.

Virginia Woolf said it well:

Surely it matters 
Whether a meal 
Consists of boiled potatoes

Or brie-baked bourguignon

And if one meal, much more a life –

Whether the poet has paper and storage in the clouds

Good lighting and access to a thesaurus

And time alone,

When the stomach is full

And frees the mind to roam,

Recalling this thought or that, 

Sitting a spell,

Bending to smell

This word or not, 

Choosing
Hues, lines and shapes,

To gather up into bouquets.