To Miss Eyre
At noon we looked past
the hedges of dappled light and saw
a wedding dress
travelling from the pocket
of your cloak. All toy
loveliness, apple blossoms
stormed the path,
clutches of white
nippled by pink.
You, our bigger likeness,
our greater equal,
your words loomed us
to the backs of chairs
while tiny white mushrooms
with eyes of dahlias
opened at our feet.
You were the first to explain
love is not just wild strawberries
cradled in the elbow of the sun.
Love is also the scrape of pebbles
under the garden bench.
It’s the blast of an early winter storm
pitting the faces and hands
of the unhatted and ungloved.
And life is a hundred country walks
without purpose or direction
yet each one absolutely necessary.
Who taught you that?
Let us buy your bolts
of Quaker grey and black,
shades that reproach the harlot-makers.
Let us answer when he asks
how you learned to paint the wind.
Take us with you when you go out
to mail a letter.
We will be your paper.
We will be your pocket.
We will be the drop of crimson
ready for your seal.
