Honesty Poem by Jan Owen

Alias Lunaria: silver dollar or silver shilling,
it travels well: hold it up to the light and see

frugal savings for a rainy day.
To be honest my first reaction's the honest lie

that hopes the means will justify the end,
metaphor's sideways lean to claim a wider view

for the little everythings to hand,
these loony purses of loose change

for the futures market, translucent not transparent,
since honesty wouldn't presume on absolute truth

and isn't a fool. Lunaria means ‘forgetfulness',
but all September options get snapped up.

Right now, each pod is one hand clapping the wind,
beautifully brittle, an archaeological find;

or else dry whispers tethered on wispy stems,
lesser moons resisting spin-off, interest paid to the void.

To step a little further from the truth,
they are elegant quizzing glasses, deliberately dim

like the lenses Baruch Spinoza ground
to trick his friends, blurred monocle-jokes

on one-eyed world-views, even his own.
Nonsense, honesty says, I am simply the shortest distance

between two seeds. Lens or not, I magnify. Money or not,
I circulate. Give me away, I return tenfold;

rub me between your finger and thumb till I shine.
That's honesty in winter, every virtue has four seasons.

And I've told you nothing at all of the flowers in spring tra-la,
their illusory clouds of white and purple and white.