I planted the pansies
\nwith tired hands,
\nwith a worn out heart.
\nThere was no sound in me.
\nI crouched as if in prayer
\nfollowing the ritual of years.
\nBrushing away the leaves,
\nthe webs of gossamer,
\nthe distaff of a hard winter,
\nreadying the bed
\nfor the apricot faces
\nof the pansies,
\norange moths,
\npatient and silent
\nwatching me work,
\nwith the quickening river
\nof another spring.<\/p>\n
When I was young,
\nlove pursued me,
\ncalled me from my rest,
\ndanced with the abandon
\nof the awakened heart,
\nand I had no time for pansies,
\nthe mysterious growing,
\nthe eruptment urges
\nof the earth itself.<\/p>\n
Who was she that I loved so much?
\nWho called me
\nlike the sun into unfolding.
\nBut I remember her,
\nand she is by me now,
\nby the little crate of flowers,
\nin the wet of old eyes
\nlooking at the soil,
\nwanting to grow with me again,
\nkeep faith with the spring,
\nbe by my side
\nhanding me pansies,
\nbetrothed again
\nin her dress of gold.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n