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The Weed

 I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought stood frozen, drawn immense and clear, stiff and idle as I was there; and we remained unchanged together for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion, as startling, there, to every sense as an explosion.
Then it dropped to insistent, cautious creeping in the region of the heart, prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head.
A slight young weed had pushed up through the heart and its green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.
) It grew an inch like a blade of grass; next, one leaf shot out of its side a twisting, waving flag, and then two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick.
The nervous roots reached to each side; the graceful head changed its position mysteriously, since there was neither sun nor moon to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change (not beat) and then it split apart and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides, one to the right, one to the left, two rushing, half-clear streams, (the ribs made of them two cascades) which assuredly, smooth as glass, went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The weed was almost swept away; it struggled with its leaves, lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face and in my eyes, so I could see (or, in that black place, thought I saw) that each drop contained a light, a small, illuminated scene; the weed-deflected stream was made itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all the scenes that it had once reflected shut in its waters, and not floating on momentary surfaces.
) The weed stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet (with my own thoughts?) and answered then: "I grow," it said, "but to divide your heart again.

Poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Book: Shattered Sighs