"Wild Honeysuckle"

Field notes from the wild edges

All photos by Joyce Enzor Maust

Read aloud by me with images from Adkins Arboretum.

Wild Honeysuckle

Those who catalog the world
call it Pinxterbloom azalea,
not the honeysuckle
of European vines
that wind and bind.

Pinkster.
A Dutch word.
Tongues of fire.

In New York, once a year,
enslaved people
found freedom from men
who claimed to own breath
and bone.

Drums sharpened into satire.
There was dancing and singing.
The telling of stories.

It was never
just a flower.

In the hills,
everything wanders.
As a child,
I’d disappear for hours.

Squished creek mud between bare toes.
Ran through sheets drying under noon sun.
Got lost among wild phlox, buttercups,
and mountain laurel.

I gathered sweetness without permission.

Even the bees understood the dark syrup
of mad honey. Poison.

Blurred vision.
Loosened body.

A little dangerous.
A little holy.
Enough to make
power nervous.

So let the botanists argue.

I’ll call it honeysuckle.
Holy fire of incense
growing fierce.

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For a history behind the name “Pinxter,” and the tradition of the African-American Pinkster celebration, follow the link below.
The History of the Name and African-American Festival

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Part of what I’ve begun thinking of as a “May Day Basketful of Floral Poetry” inspired by floral prompts by Dorie Snow/雪多丽 through White Rabbit Poetry Society.
The Substack that began this basketful of blooming poetry:

May Flowers Poetry Prompts

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Other nature wanderings:

The forest breathes softly through the ferns where light flickers through shadow. Beneath moss and canopy, unfurling fronds welcome me home.

Roots, reflections, and shadows. Where we’ve been. What we’re becoming.

When all your wishes come to naught:

Until the next wandering, my friends, may you walk gently beneath moss and canopy, open to whatever blooms untamed.

From amongst the wildflowers,

Joyce