There is a pain too shy for any words,
That shrinks from any touch like the horns of a snail,
That lives under the dead leaves and fallen branches,
And when disturbed, prefers to close its door.
It says, please believe in the camouflage of my shell.
There is a grief that renounces words,
Like a mysterious bulb
That every year is deeper in the earth,
Unsuspected by the sunlight creatures.
Some years there is enough rain for a flower
That withers, bittersweet.
There is a hurt so bright it hides its face
And will not look, no matter what the time,
Like that day in November
That seems to be all evening.
Oh, well. Surely something needs repotting.
There are some small but potent joys:
The smell and the feel of newly sifted compost,
Lifted, sniffed, and mixed by hand
With perlite and a dash of kelp;
The satisfaction of getting the little plant
In the very center of its new pot.