Poets who talk shit about poets who write about flowers must be thinking of the bouquets of flowers flown in from across the world that are sold in grocery stores. Or the gardens of the rich. Or the roses of the traditional sonnet.

When I think of flowers I am thinking of the hundreds of thousands of wildflowers I have seen while hiking in the mountains. Of the resilience of cactus flowers in the desert. Of the flowering plants which form the majority of our food. Not just the tomatoes and squashes, but the corn and wheat and rice. The food that feeds the animals we eat.

I’ve spent much time on farms and in orchards. I’ve talked with many farmers. Farming is rarely the domain of the leisure class. Yet their fields are full of flowers. That is how the plants they grow perpetuate themselves. Those plants are how we perpetuate ourselves. To write about flowers, to me, means writing about life, food, economy, persistence, and adaptability. And yes: beauty. Which is what all those things add up to.

Have you ever grown your own food? How many farmers do you know? Have you ever cooked for a living? Some poets assume if you write about flowers, it is because you come from a place of privilege. If all you think about when you think of flowers is roses, perhaps it is you that is privileged.