Spring 1985 • Vol. VII No. 2 Poetry |

Bottles

Then, in May, the Virginia sun gets close again, And finds the redbud within reach. A single blossom is not enough to satisfy The sun's imperious egg-yolk eye. The redbud clothes its limbs in blossoms. I have seen a photo of a man's arm Just withdrawn from a beehive, His arm is the redbud's arm, with yellow, Plump, stunned bees instead of purple trumpets. Perhaps he too is answering the sun, Its profligate demand for life, Its way of measuring proof.He has come to the bees like a vision, And become one of their gods, For the bees are passive as blossoms. They cling mutely         as the tea rose clings To the stucco wall beneath my window, Making its slow, spring-begotten way to me. Long before the first white tongue of petal Slips from a bud to savor the sun, I send down my cautious hand as if my arm Were a rope that might break any minute. The other roses—common, red—grow closer To the ground, but do not have the fluted shape, The open shape of the ear. They do

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Pastoral

By Lisa Lewis

Then, in May, the Virginia sun gets close again, And finds the redbud within reach. A single blossom is not enough to satisfy The sun's imperious egg-yolk eye. The redbud […]

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