Look how ugly you’ve got, the flowers say to me
Every spring. And I, well, I
Temporize, what else.
But it’s them, isn’t it?
Everything all at once, and then nothing—
Self-crumpling, self-discarding paper; sticks.
It’s them, not me. Oh, miracles
Upon miracles, you think you’ll never lose
Those fragile shapings of light—God’s plenty.
Then gone. And it’s up to you:
Especially in the dark, it’s up to you.
Finally
It’s been too long, you can’t remember,
And among the words that moved in when the flowers went
You do things that—.
Not once,
Not one year, have I been sure that they really would
Come back, or—lately—even that I’d ever seen them.
Then one day, or week,
The words turn water, soft earth, in a rush
Of green the flowers
Are all around, reds, yellows, pinks, lavenders, light blues—.
I never left.
OK, I say, you see me.
Leave a Reply