On Saffron

More precious, for an ounce, than gold,

Some filaments, sprinkled on ice,

(Its destination: brothy rice)

The flower blooms twice: once warm, then cold.

The water melts, as what once flowered,

Combined: a soft, reflecting pool

To be absorbed, and then devoured,

Then trickled out as orange drool.

Millenia used it for its hue,

For medicine and mystic balms,

(One licks the paint, "It tastes good too!")

And now it seasons without qualms.

When Solomon sang long of love

An orchard was his lover's face,

With pomegranate trees above,

And saffron perfume filled the place;

And when his people would oblate

A fragrant flame unto their God,

They burned what we find on our plate,

A nutmeg, honey lightning rod.

If you don't know a use, just guess!

The Persians sewed it into rugs,

But when the foreigns came as guests,

Theythought the flowers licentiousdrugs!

And Persian Cyrus taught the Great –

Not like the Greeks who taught him math –

To heal the wounds dealt him by fate,

Plus Alex liked the orange bath.

Now into Kashmir, two men, ill,

Came wandering, in need of cures.

The chief replied, "You'll have your fill."

In turn their gift in tales endures:

They took a bulb from cloaky layers,

A flower to give their thank-yous with;

Some farmers put their names in prayers

While others think it’s just a myth.

To Europe, it was brought by Moors

To Poitiers, with its ringing towers.

But Martel came and won at Tours:

"Get out!" he shrieked, "But leave the flowers."

Later on, when the Black Death struck,

Demand was high for our old stem.

"Where is it found?" "What rotten luck!

We just finished crusading them."

When merchants spooked nobility,

Trafficking much in flowers and cash,

The latter nursed fragility;

The plan they hatched seemed rather rash:

They seized a mere eight hundred pounds

Of what we know outprices gold.

The merchants fired back some rounds;

The gentry knew they'd been too bold.

Then out Carl Schwenckfeld's people went

To flee sectism with a trunk,

In which were corms; to pay the rent

They sent them down, and down they sunk

To Spaniards in the Caribbean.

But 1812! And empires warred,

So sales down South began to lean;

The Dutch must eat the gold they'd stored.

How people like to organize!

In Europe it's one-sixty-four,

But in Iran they roll their eyes:

"It's what those jars just there are for…"

Some jars are tall with pointed tops,

One blushes while another burns.

A mirror backs the heady shop,

Reflecting back the jarred lanterns.

One hundred-thousand acres wide

Across Iran, they cultivate

To leave us somewhat satisfied

In our demand which won't abate.

An ancient plant, commodity,

The truth is beauty powers trade;

Some wealth desires oddity

And buys before desire can fade.

We think our cultivating skill

Will yield us flowers whate'er befall,

Neglecting Nature's greater will:

Nature, who has no will at all.

Yes, Nature gave us seasoning,

And things to sew into a mat,

But clearly not our reasoning,

Since we invented all of that.

I said, "Since you've such apathy,

I'll saffron-scent a urinal

Or try some homeopathy."

She told me, "It's your funeral."

Slackjaw I stare at history,

These fifty thousand years,

Evaluate perspectives of my antiquated peers;

To them, an utter mystery:

The spice that paints the wall.

The poet’s voice a blooming echo, mourning with its call,

"Aurora was but crocin and her scent but safranal!"

2025