Revolutionary Petunias by Alice Walker Page A

things that made
    Us laugh and stories by
    The hour     Waking up the story buds
    Like fruit. Who walked among the flowers
    And brought them inside the house
    And smelled as good as they
    And looked as bright.
    Who made dresses, braided
    Hair. Moved chairs about
    Hung things from walls
    Ordered baths
    Frowned on wasp bites
    And seemed to know the endings
    Of all the tales
    I had forgot.
    WHO OFF INTO THE UNIVERSITY
    Went exploring     To London and
    To Rotterdam
    Prague and to Liberia
    Bringing back the news to us
    Who knew none of it
    But followed
    crops and weather
    funerals and
    Methodist Homecoming;
    easter speeches,
    groaning church.
    WHO FOUND ANOTHER WORLD
    Another life     With gentlefolk
    Far less trusting
    And moved and moved and changed
    Her name
    And sounded precise
    When she spoke     And frowned away
    Our sloppishness.
    WHO SAW US SILENT
    Cursed with fear     A love burning
    Inexpressible
    And sent me money not for me
    But for “College.”
    Who saw me grow through letters
    The words misspelled     But not
    The longing     Stretching
    Growth
    The tied and twisting
    Tongue
    Feet no longer bare
    Skin no longer burnt against
    The cotton.
    WHO BECAME SOMEONE OVERHEAD
    A light     A thousand watts
    Bright and also blinding
    And saw my brothers cloddish
    And me destined to be
    Wayward
    My mother remote     My father
    A wearisome farmer
    With heartbreaking
    Nails.
    I OR MY SISTER MOLLY WHO IN THE FIFTIES
    Found much
    Unbearable
    Who walked where few had
    Understood     And sensed our
    Groping after light
    And saw some extinguished
    And no doubt mourned.
    FOR MY SISTER MOLLY WHO IN THE FIFTIES
    Left us.

Eagle Rock
    In the town where I was born
    There is a mound
    Some eight feet high
    That from the ground
    Seems piled up stones
    In Georgia
    Insignificant.
    But from above
    The lookout tower
    Floor
    An eagle widespread
    In solid gravel
    Stone
    Takes shape
    Below;
    The Cherokees raised it
    Long ago
    Before westward journeys
    In the snow
    Before the
    National Policy slew
    Long before Columbus knew.
    I used to stop and
    Linger there
    Within the cleanswept tower stair
    Rock Eagle pinesounds
    Rush of stillness
    Lifting up my hair.
    Pinned to the earth
    The eagle endures
    The Cherokees are gone
    The people come on tours.
    And on surrounding National
    Forest lakes the air rings
    With cries
    The silenced make.
    Wearing cameras
    They never hear
    But relive their victory
    Every year
    And take it home
    With them.
    Young Future Farmers
    As paleface warriors
    Grub
    Live off the land
    Pretend Indian, therefore
    Man,
    Can envision a lake
    But never a flood
    On earth
    So cleanly scrubbed
    Of blood:
    They come before the rock
    Jolly conquerers.
    They do not know the rock
    They love
    Lives and is bound
    To bide its time
    To wrap its stony wings
    Around
    The innocent eager 4-H Club.

Baptism
    They dunked me in the creek;
    a tiny brooklet.
    Muddy, gooey with rotting leaves,
    a greenish mold floating;
    definable.
    For love it was. For love of God
    at seven. All in white.
    With God’s mud ruining my snowy
    socks and his bullfrog spoors
    gluing up my face.

J, My Good Friend (another foolish innocent)
    It is too easy not to like
    Jesus,
    It worries greatness
    To an early grave
    Without any inkling
    Of what is wise.
    So when I am old,
    And so foolish with pain
    No one who knows
    me
    Can tell from which
    Senility or fancy
    I deign to speak,
    I may sing
    In my cracked and ugly voice
    Of Jesus my good
    Friend;
    Just as the old women
    In my home town
    Do now.

View from Rosehill Cemetery: Vicksburg
    for Aaron Henry
    Here we have watched ten thousand
    seasons
    come and go.
    And unmarked graves atangled
    in the brush
    turn our own legs to trees
    vertical forever between earth
    and sun.
    Here we are not quick to disavow
    the pull of field and wood
    and stream;
    we are not quick to turn
    upon our dreams.

Revolutionary Petunias
    for June and Julius

Beauty, no doubt, does not make
    revolutions. But a