I planted the pansies
with tired hands,
with a worn out heart.
There was no sound in me.
I crouched as if in prayer
following the ritual of years.
Brushing away the leaves,
the webs of gossamer,
the distaff of a hard winter,
readying the bed
for the apricot faces
of the pansies,
orange moths,
patient and silent
watching me work,
with the quickening river
of another spring.
When I was young,
love pursued me,
called me from my rest,
danced with the abandon
of the awakened heart,
and I had no time for pansies,
the mysterious growing,
the eruptment urges
of the earth itself.
Who was she that I loved so much?
Who called me
like the sun into unfolding.
But I remember her,
and she is by me now,
by the little crate of flowers,
in the wet of old eyes
looking at the soil,
wanting to grow with me again,
keep faith with the spring,
be by my side
handing me pansies,
betrothed again
in her dress of gold.