Such simple chemistry unlocks
a bulb's code - water, light
earth, air - so you can hold its flower;
like this wood anemone
cupped in my hand, for you to see.
What makes the heart more than
a living pump, this animated lump
of vein and blood?
What kind of occult key
can bare its bud
to occupy a season of its own
as if it had been dormant,
not a stone?
A constant love like these
winter anemones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem