Marigold by Thomas Lacey
Mari, Mari, Mari. That name was never yours.
Out in the sea of perfect marigolds,
Beside the hill that never had a name,
Is where I came across the neighbors’ child
Before I knew I’d ever be a man.
Just old enough to squint and read the letters
Spelling “Tulip” in the dirt—yes, young and merry.
The girl was never more alive and merry
Than when she picked the perfect marigold.
I told her mother—once I could write letters—
And heard her call upon the Savior’s name
That if her husband should return, that man
Would finally see the beauty in his child.
Tulip was seldom frightened as a child
For she was always innocent and merry,
But if she did come by an evil man,
She sprinted towards the field of marigolds;
And so, to me, that word became her name.
And that was when we started writing letters.
So, then we tried to place its many letters
(The word is never easy for a child).
We struggled, but we learned to spell the name,
And in that day, I promised I would marry
The girl with golden braids like marigolds,
When we grew up and I became a man.
She promised, too, but now I am a man
And yet I have to pray for just a letter
Written by my precious Marigold.
She tells me now that she was just a child
And that is true, but we were young and merry,
And I had given her a special name.
But Marigold refused to keep the name.
She went to France and found another man,
Decided she had found the one to marry,
And after that, she seldom sent me letters.
Soon enough, they had a little child
And no one knew about my Marigold.
She kept the name, but just to sign her letters.
And with that man, she had another child
And called her Mari, short for Marigold.