A Poem for Lucy, on Seeing her Smiling
You were born a sunflower, say your soft wild eyes
and wide smile.
But you were raised a rose
in the trim allees of an old garden--
all ordered verdure
and still, still air.
You sometimes strain at your stem
to gulp the sun,
and swallow in long draughts cool rain,
and inhale whole mouths full of auroral air.
But Time is young,
and the sun you thirst for still burns in the sky,
waiting for you to abandon your old life
and be a sunflower.
