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Personal Note:

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Poem

I turn and run down to the wet places where fawns remedy  their 
thirst from the waterbrooks.  Panting, I fall to my knees and gather buttercups, 
crowsfoots, hellebore and peonies and grind the crimson, white, yellow and 
purple petals atop a stone.  I brush the crushed blossoms into a straight trumpet 
with my fingertips and dip out water from a brook with my cupped palm to mix the 
elixir in the lily.  As I lean over the small stream, brooding and pining away, I catch 
a glimpse of my reflection below, only to notice the looming of a narcissus 
beside my visage.  
                         Then, I hear a song of coos go out to my love, and I turn about in 
fear when I see the bobolink migrating.  So, in a pledge of hope and trust toward 
her, I knot the golden chain she gave me hanging around my neck. Thus, hasting 
through the field of flowers, my lovelorn heart pounds as I run back to her.  
Though she's slipping away, her ruddy color is unfaded, so I anxiously give her 
the medicinal draft.  Some spills over her milky teeth and rosy cheeks in rivulets, 
while the remainder goes down within.  I observe.   All the snowdrops fall.  The 
buckthorns rustle.  The central flowers in their clusters bloom, then all the 
clusters open. 
                        I stretch out upon my love mouth to mouth and breast to breast.  
The potion stimulates her heart, and I feel her flesh warm under mine.  Her 
wounds heal.  Now my love lies breathing, strengthened and embraced in my 
arms; in our flower bed weeping aloud, we rise and clasp hands and dance 
rings around the roses to my rheumy serenade.

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