There is a portion like the holy
in the growing
odors of the green–

Slinking thyme
English ivy on the vine
Lily bells and Queen Anne’s lace

Purple-tufted onion grass, the trace of
Persian clover, sodden honeysuckle,
A red-eyed Rose of Sharon tree.

Tell me, dear, how many bear on
me– how you bow
or boast
or lust
or lose?

How much of trust,
when this one ambles
toward the sedge

while the other wanders
on the edge or less?

“Burrowed down in a brownish tray
Beneath the tawny fields of hay
The fair cheek fades, the fair lips fray–
Of my Amy Louise McVeigh,”

The cocky echo never stops.

Watching for her reappearance;
Adhering to a promise, something said,
one ripe, red-lettered pledge;

Missing her come morning,
Come a million immoveable mornings;

Wishing her not so pressed
To feel another night’s duress;
I’d dampen Nature’s reckless scent
with another curse and a terse lament.


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