Blue Crown Passionflower

The first time I saw one I was on the other side of a golf course,
The fertile part of the path before the dirt widens into the
Barren expanse of a homeless encampment.

I was stopped in my tracks, as they say.
Passionflowers look like alien beings, or
Mechanical gizmos, with so much
Delicate circuitry that they don’t bear
Touching, or breathing on.

To the Spaniards the three stamen antennae were the
Nails in the wounds of Christ.
The corona of blue filaments
Our Savior’s Halo.

I remember breathing in the early morning mist
That cascaded from the sprinklers,
My athletic shoes sinking into the mud,
And thinking simply,
“I wish I knew what these were called.”

When we discovered the secret garden,
It looked like a jungle,
A surprising pocket of sinuous life
In the arid desert of Southern California.

The twisted ropes were everywhere,
Dragging all the trees into relationship and forcing
Shaded bowers by stringing tendrils from every toehold,
Criss-crossing the whole yard like a
Green and pleasant booby trap.

The vines were almost trees themselves, several inches
Across, and we hacked into those
Snaky things day after day until
We could walk without being snared.

Only later did I realize these vines were Passionflower,
When the aureole space-ships opened their eyes en masse
And the flying beetles and giant bees
Came to eat.

I dug up all the new shoots and
Replanted them at intervals along the chain-link
Facing the trash-strewn alley.
In a few years they’ll make a living wall of green.

The psychic channeling my dead friend said these
Passionflowers have something special for me.
I won’t make a perfume or flower essence;
I prefer to leave the blossoms for the bees.

The Aztecs called it “serpent's tongue” and
Made medicine out of the roots and leaves.
One thing I've learned, the action is not
Confined to the blooms.