If everlasting peace is what you want,
begonia, oh then why believe the dew’s
good morning murmurings? Is this the muse
you seek, who dreams and dreams all night of wet,
who sleeptalks vows of rain and rise but leaves
too little in your cup — your mouth agape?
Do you arouse yourself each day to pray
for him to stay, your blossom full of seed?
Far wiser than you seem! You know your love —
though leaving — lifts your spirits into mist;
unbinds your scent from roots in earth to drift
unvoiced across the grass, from there to lodge
in deepest memory — until that time
long past your death you bloom a stifled cry.