Laura, let us be those roses,
which, rained on, fall as rain from shaken bush,
those soft and pink to tread light through,
our fragrance like dulcet forgiveness’s scent.
Let’s wake or stand near walking-past of fears,
as if they’d be some ancient gauche display.
The fossil tiger lilies have no teeth.
Look you, it’s light despite a flailing
nature’s havoc. We’re each illumined here.
Even in deep, dark Venus traps, some glow--
the lightning bugs, perhaps, that spark their goal,
despite the blasting, or the mouldering,
ingestion, range, or toil. Rest us now in
quaint gardens where gargoyles won’t plague; at last
the rain stops and we’ll sigh with the honest
quiet effort of the sun. We’ll dry, stop
shedding petals, each, listless, agleam
with what wet skins can do. Hey, nothing is so
good or bad except in how decided.
We are sleeping and walking at once, girl,
rained upon and shedding and blooming, too,
pink and soft, lovely and ravished, stronger
than the delicacy of floral looks.
Note the thorns. The stance. Good news in gardens:
We remain feather-light, fragrant, blown, post-
reckoning—newer futures all the time.