The sweet wind climbed with a laggard pace
Up the green hill, but meeting the sun there
Disappeared like a piece of warm wax
Into the ground. Down on the south slope
A bitch stretched, and swaths of fierce lilacs
Opened astonishing furnaces of scent.
A woman introduced herself into the park,
Her dry legs crackling in darkness,
At bitch, lilac, the fierce and asleep.
The hot festival flooded her garments
With rich scent, and worked memories slenderly
Out of closets in the well-governed flesh.
She stopped. Right and left the unsteady
Blossoms broke into flame, and the wide lawn
Lifted a somersault, slowly, of grief.
Then she turned back to the hot parlor,
Where tea and dry supper were laid, and a spoon
Would arrange the bottom of her china dream.