Then, light snagged on the lime trees and myrtle bent the sage.
Some saw a sprit kneel, then leave.
But I was washing March radishes in the spring.
I bundled them & walked into a westering blood sky.
A girl I was, still weighted with delicious things.
Lazarus, do not mind the narcissus
I place in your eyes. Or jonquils hid
in palms. They are not meant
to coin new life. Only---when
you died,
a green rhythm sprang from my mind.
Now crushed mint stains the air.
No doubt
He will give you life again.
But who can give me a green mind
sprung past grief? When I have seen milk
buds so pale, I know their hearts are violet.
Dana Littlepage Smith
Cathedral Close
Exeter, England