Surely the people are grass. Beautiful,
feathery things, bent
and bending in the sun, bound
to nothing but the earth
beneath their feet—nothing,
not reason, not time.
Pick the tallest red rose for me. Pluck
the richest bloody crimson with the fullest stem
and greenest leaves and I will sigh
as simple girls in summer must, and I
will wrap my heart around that perfect petal face
as if the roots of him reached down
into the spinning globe’s unchanging core.
We’ll sway golden in the sun all year; we’ll dance
to flick away the dewy night; we’ll pierce
each other with our thorns, and laugh.
And then I’ll sigh again one day,
as widows must,
with lilies in my hair.