THE GARDEN
I
You are clear,
O rose, cut in rock.
I could scrape the color
From the petals,
Like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree,
I could break you.
II
O wind, rend open the heat,
Cut apart the heat,
Slit it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
Through this thick air;
Fruit cannot fall into heat
That presses up and blunts
The points of pears,
And rounds grapes.
Cut the heat:
Plough through it,
Turning it on either side
Of your path.