"fowers" poems
XLIV
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here ’s ivy!—take them, as I used to do
Thy fowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors true,
And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.
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He lay staring up at the stars
The dewy Grass beneath his black coat.
Pulling up his sleeves, he reveals the scars.
Wondering if there should be another on his throat.
He thinks back to a time when we called the moon ours.
On his skin, he wrote
The name on his tongue sours
His heart raced as he wondered when they last spoke
He thinks back to all the fowers
That went up in smoke.
Now the thought makes him remember the arguments when they spoke.
His pillow still harnesses the midnight showers
He now lay to stare at the moon for hours.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 2:00 PM UTC