Eglantine, or How a Flower Writes Back

Mount Vernon

Eglantine, or How a Flower Writes Back

In the old dictionaries of bloom—

those Victorian field guides to feelings—

Eglantine (sweetbriar)

is assigned the audacious job of standing in for poetry,

as if a plant could be trusted with the entire inventory of metaphor.

Consider the evidence.

A blossom that smells not only of heaven but of apples when the leaves are bruised—

green thinking ripening under pressure, a scent released by contact,

as if language required friction to admit it has a flavor.

Its hips arrive later, small red afterthoughts,

edible, yes—vitamin C in a modest disguise—

proof that beauty occasionally packs a lunch.

The stems defend themselves with thorns

that prefer the term prickles, botanically precise,

a reminder that accuracy can still draw blood.

Poetry behaves the same way.

Approach it casually and it will annotate you.

Handle it poorly and it will correct your grip.

Bruise a line and it smells like something else—

memory, orchard, a sentence remembering it used to be fruit.

There is humor in the job description.

“To represent poetry” is like asking weather to summarize the sky.

And yet—watch how it manages it: wild habit, disciplined bloom,

fragrance that changes its mind when handled,

a text that edits the reader.

I try to write about it, to be precise without becoming sterile,

to keep the science honest—species, structure, the small, stubborn facts—

while letting the metaphor do what it does best:

overreach with elegance.

The line resists me, then yields, then resists again.

A good poem, like a good hedge, refuses a straight path.

By the end, my page smells faintly of apples.

My fingers have learned a new respect for edges.

There are small red conclusions forming at the margins.

If this reads like poetry, credit the plant.

I only took notes—

and possibly leaned on the leaves

a little harder than necessary.

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According to a Victorian book of the Language of Flowers, the Eglantine rose is the flower which represents poetry. I had written this piece during Na Po Wri Mo, around Earth Day, but didn't share it. Thank to a timely prompt from the DVerse Poets Pub, I had this all primed, couple of tweaks, I was ready to go.

©2026 Christopher Reilley 

 

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