We are flowers of the common
sward, that much we understand.
Of everything else
we’re innocent. No Creator
laid down such terms
for our pleasant lives,
– it’s just our nature,
were we not so,
we wouldn’t be daisies, closing
our lashes at the first
suggestion of Venus. By then,
we’re near exhausted. Evening
means sleep, and surely it’s better
to renew ourselves than die
of all that openness?
But die we will, innocent
or no, of how night
spills above our garden,
twins glittering there
for each of us; die
never knowing what we miss.