In Time of Sickness

Two years ago, counting back from January. . . In Alabama a kind of wintry, wary Spring had begun. Next month camellias would open, In March the jonquils, then anything could happen As far as flowers were concerned. You yearned For them that spring, I know it, Mother, Lying on patched hospital sheets, smothering (Cold, cooped up) in a dinky room, its walls Tranquility-gray. You lay there, a hand-knitted shawl, The color of honey, around your shoulders; It was wintry in Alabama, ever colder As camellias budded and suddently burst. Though icy, this was the warmest of the worst Three winters you knew. Your flowers were worked by the man (He talked to himself; so what?) you used to stand Over at seventy-five cents an hour. Many years, Many words taught him the art of hoe and shears.

Easter, I wasn't aware of the "ritual story"— Nothing new to wear, broke, playing with the glory Of being mortal. Tons of Greyhound bus Moaned through the wind, coldly delivering us To wedding beds, fresh wars, new griefs. I studied the faces around me, sleeping and brief. I read in a smutty newspaper that emotion Could now be applied like a facial lotion. New Year! cut the adder's head in two! I'm poisoned with fear. I'm poisoned with love too.

Summer scolds

The yard today; verbena droops; blind moles Cave through the earth, leaving line-mounds of lawn. I, incompetent as ever, am drawn Back to your winter days. Rich fawning ferns Remind me they need water. The sky burns.