April

No one's despair is like my despair—

You have no place in this garden

thinking such things, producing

the tiresome outward signs; the man

pointedly weeding an entire forest,

the woman limping, refusing to change

clothes

or wash her hair.

Do you suppose I care

if you speak to one another?

But I mean you to know

I expected better of two creatures

who were given minds: if not

that you would actually care for each

other

at least that you would understand

grief is distributed

between you, among all your kind, for

me

to know you, as deep blue

marks the wild scilla, white

the wood violet.