Garden by H.D.

Garden

 I
You are clear
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.

I could scrape the colour
from the petals
like split dye from a rock

If I could break you
I could break a tree.

If I could stir
I could break a tree—
I could break you.

 II
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air—
fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat—
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of you path.