Comment on this
By Rhina P. Espaillat
Through the gold windfall of the falling year,
clay pot and spade in hand, I set about
to bring them safe indoors, before the rout
of their last ragged blossoms, swaying here.
Lifting the web of roots that summer-long
bound them to Earth as to my flower beds,
I salvage for myself their nodding heads
and have a sense of somehow doing wrong:
It is not love that begs for such reprieves,
but need. It is myself whose winter days
will be made brighter by their purple gaze
floating above a tangle of light leaves.
I am of half a mind to be their friend
and put my spade away and let them go
to unresisted slumber in the snow--
a life complete down to its perfect end.
How must it feel, I wonder, to have spent
one's days so sanely that not one was lost
in balancing the profit with the cost
or grieving how or why or where they went.
From The Shadow I Dress In, by Rhina P. Espaillat; David
Robert Books, 2004;
(A division of WordTech Communications)
The magazines in which these
first appeared are listed in parentheses below each poem.