Elizabeth Bewick
Heartsease
A warm night after rain, I step outside
and smell the new–washed air that emanates
from roses in the gardens of the town
and from the bedrooms where the young girls lie
wakeful in tented sheets, their hearts aflame
for lovers in their still undreamt–of dreams.
Another shower sends me back indoors
to my own garden mirrored in the rain;
I close the window in a sudden chill
and drink my cocoa in a spindrift shawl.
Morning again, and pansies barely dry
are little battered flags of brilliance
growing in cracks between my paving stones.
Heartsease, you called them, and for love of you
I touch their petals with a gentle hand
and pick the weathered dead–heads carefully.
My garden is a meadow lush with weeds
in whose green depths such hidden flowers grow
as one day will suffice for all your needs.
I thought so once, sadly uncertain now
I cherish flowers that thrived on my neglect
and throw the weeds upon the rising heap.
Yet, in my seventieth year, I am ashamed
because of all the things I have not done,
the sins committed in my carelessness;
you told me once my greatest talent was
simply for loving, now I need to know
that heartsease pansies still have power to heal.
and smell the new–washed air that emanates
from roses in the gardens of the town
and from the bedrooms where the young girls lie
wakeful in tented sheets, their hearts aflame
for lovers in their still undreamt–of dreams.
Another shower sends me back indoors
to my own garden mirrored in the rain;
I close the window in a sudden chill
and drink my cocoa in a spindrift shawl.
Morning again, and pansies barely dry
are little battered flags of brilliance
growing in cracks between my paving stones.
Heartsease, you called them, and for love of you
I touch their petals with a gentle hand
and pick the weathered dead–heads carefully.
My garden is a meadow lush with weeds
in whose green depths such hidden flowers grow
as one day will suffice for all your needs.
I thought so once, sadly uncertain now
I cherish flowers that thrived on my neglect
and throw the weeds upon the rising heap.
Yet, in my seventieth year, I am ashamed
because of all the things I have not done,
the sins committed in my carelessness;
you told me once my greatest talent was
simply for loving, now I need to know
that heartsease pansies still have power to heal.
Page(s) 5
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