You say my eyes, receiving winter roses,
tried both to hide and tell you what they knew.
This bright banked fire, which flares out and then closes,
this spark my lowered gaze cannot subdue—
recall the course of blossoms brought indoors,
this pale bouquet of orange meteors.
Late in a season whose sole warmth is you
I watch them flame and fade, without regret.
My gaze is level now. I know it’s true
that this one bud which wilts, unopened yet,
may prove to be the promise of all pleasure—
of our two hearts, a constant common measure.
You say my eyes, receiving winter roses,
tried both to hide and tell you what we knew
already—that a fire there reposes,
late in a season whose bright spark is you.
Like the embers of those orange winter roses,
my gaze is level now. I know what’s true.
(for Julian—2007)
R. Nemo Hill is the author of an illustrated novel, Pilgrim’s Feather (Quantuck Lane, 2002); a narrative poem, The Strange Music of Erich Zann (Hippocampus, 2004); and a chapbook, Prolegomena to an Essay On Satire (Modern Metrics, 2006). He lives in New York City where he is Editor and Publisher of EXOT BOOKS.
