Little sapling, if I save your seed,
If I weed the wilts and water your leaves,
I am fearful your future might fall and wither.
It happens whene’er I hold close to hope —
The bud is born in beautiful splendor,
It sturdily stays standing tall,
Yet the blossom’s hues all blanch to black.
I cradle the crocus in my elbow’s crook,
But it is destined to die at dawn’s aubade.
I can try trimming the troubled branches,
I can lay you down in lavish light
Until you drown, yet dreadfully dry.
So I’ll bury your corpse back in your bed.
And I’ll keep wand’ring, wailing all the while,
Green molds my thumb with growing grief.
by Vitalia Strait
Editor’s Note: This poem’s alliteration and imagery hearkens back to an earlier time and an earlier form of verse that most Dickinson poetry lovers will appreciate.
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