for sara teasdale
odd how yr lyric seasoned, sara, revealed
for i shall learn from flower and leaf…
to change the lifeless wine of grief
to living gold.
itself & its subtly supple growth in the way
u venerated love & beauty, but did surely cling
to oh so lonely, having lived, unlike the dead.
odd how u decorated the grave of buried love,
put flowers at its head, stones at its shriveled
feet beneath a sentry tree in a primeval forest,
standing stoutly, black & tall.
yr poems pierced my armored heart, sara, like
the terrified sounds that same tree made when it
came crashing down with no man nor animal
nearby to hear or mourn it or see its white flame.