Sunday, April 29, 2018

April 5, 1962

Hearing his name
evokes a wild tender loss
the last imprinted image still & gone
yet in this late April wind,
I call his name for winds sake
Percy,
just to anticipate his ghost coming
there is the smell of turned earth & lonicera
spotted-gray hidden behind paeonia waking
not fazed by roses thorns or rubus brambles
I am fazed
so will stand in this wind
under this sun
against the white birch tree
and
drink in the rebirth of viridi




Among the Narcissi - Sylvia Plath
Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks, Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi. He is recuperating from something on the lung. The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing : It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks. There is a dignity to this; there is a formality- The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending. They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks! And the octogenarian loves the little flocks. He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing. The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.

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