There is a rose in the middle of the haw,
speaking softly of a struggle all around
across a river of leaves, among the trees;
she recalls an address of so many years ago
almost a man of straw amid a fire
when wind blows to ruffle her petals,
but, she has something besides the body,
it is an iron breath which cannot be summarized
in this wordy wound, cannot be a metaphor
for something else: it’s enough in herself.
And you can shed another petal on the floor
but it’s useless, another useless action told.
Choose a body, a name, a place
for your story, for each man’s work,
to wonder together the unfailing choices
of the others. A river-tale is dead now;
begin another one more happy, more
cheerful, with more than a rose.