it pains me to know
that there was more that melted away
than just the snow
and as the flowers bloom next spring
and the birds begin to chirp and sing
i carry the guilt of winter on my back
and every-time i stop to think of the season to come
i nearly have a heart attack
because i thought winter was the most stupid season
i'd sit there and hope for spring to come without a reason
but as the seasons go by
i realise that there is a reason i
had to be saddened by winter
i know now
that if i hadn't been broken by winter drifting away
than i will be
lie head eye closed
see down dark
lanes of wish
running light
ever away ---
in the clothes
of dark shades
some income-
subtracted rainbow appeal
to reason where wear is
black odds
exposed to red
herring soup
black chips
fortune's coup
black blues
6.8 And if to die is to move
from the ugliness of this world
then let it be; should I
welcome spring; turn summer down, and fall
from my hands; the serpent's slow unwinding, agate eyes, and blue bushes now
in flower; spice smells undo the lament
of tree leaves on the cement.
But if this cannot be
then let it die with the singing
of one lone bird, at twilight
crook the hand, crawl over, cover us with leaves.
Spring---
and the last white flower
fades from the blue stem of the mountain
I see you foraging through
weeds in a field; it’s spring,
air streaked green. I’m with
you in the field: I’m mud, or
grass, I’m beneath your nails,
held fast. Bark flakes off me.
You pass on, satisfied. Branches
sway, flecked by tongues—
look at my garden’s sprawl;
do you see me here, or in the air?
You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was ever any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn’t know our name.
(No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods--
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
He halted in the wind, and--what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.
‘Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,’ I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
Had we but in us to assume in March
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on):
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.
Always the same, when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.
Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured against maple, birch and oak,
It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.--You come too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.--You come too.