The Garden

I

You are clear

O rose, cut in rock,

hard as the descent of hail.

I could scrape the colour   

from the petals

like spilt dye from a rock.

If I could break you   

I could break a tree.

If I could stir

I could break a tree—

I could break you.

II

O wind, rend open the heat,   

cut apart the heat,   

rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop   

through this thick air—

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears   

and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat—

plough through it,

turning it on either side   

of your path.