A Vernal Melancholy
("Perfume from the magic flower fills the air, my darling. Right at our
doorstep I have stored up for you all kinds of tasty fruit." -- Song of
Songs 7:13)
Don't hide the gardenias from my eyes,
from my ears,
don't secret the hibiscus beneath the
back porch shadows,
Bring the apples from the northwest,
oranges from the gulf,
grapes and wine, honey from the comb,
perfume and cologne at the front door
of the soul where love sits waiting.
But I'm the one who waits now
for the love, I know I heard the voice,
that promised never to
leave
or forsake.
And I've found that tears have mass.
That's the reason why
they stain my glasses
when I cry.
And so I hoped the flow would stop
dust from gathering on the tulips
struggling through cracked skin
early spring.
But flowers bloom, flowers die,
and no one knows why.
From my window I can only watch
as the love that is planted twists like a
wheel-of-fortune
and spins out of control toward
the sky.
I
Mourn the high magic that
bloomed so quickly,
sprang up so quickly overnight
and nestled its fragrance a
memory forever
while
I wipe the stains
from my glasses again.
Mark Phillips
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