Emily, as I entered a real greenhouse,

I feared I failed to do you justice, to see

with Teddy’s eyes, to smell as he would have

the cyclamens, the mums, the pithy tilth

and near-obscene sweet richness of it all,

which he ascribed to you, despite

your gimpy leg and spiky manner—

you were his hothouse houri, dizzying.

And Essie, did I make it clear enough

just how your face combined the Wilmot cool

precision, the clean Presbyterian cut,

hellbent on election, with the something

soft your mother brought to the blend, the petals

of her willing to unfold at a touch?

I wanted you to be beautiful, the both of you,

and, here among real flowers, fear I failed.