By William Carlos Williams
It is a small plant
delicately branched and
tapering conically
to a point, each branch
and the peak a wire for
green pods, blind lanterns
starting upward from
the stalk each way to
a pair of prickly edged blue
flowerets: it is her regard,
a little plant without leaves,
a finished thing guarding
its secret. Blue eyes—
but there are twenty looks
in one, alike as forty flowers
on twenty stems—Blue eyes
a little closed upon a wish
achieved and half lost again,
stemming back, garlanded
with green sacks of
satisfaction gone to seed,
back to a straight stem—if
one looks into you, trumpets—!
No. It is the pale hollow of
desire itself counting
over and over the moneys of
a stale achievement. Three
small lavender imploring tips
below and above them two
slender colored arrows
of disdain with anthers
between them and
at the edge of the goblet
a white lip, to drink from—!
And summer lifts her look
forty times over, forty times
over—namelessly.
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My major Wednesday activity involved taking Adam to the pediatrician for his annual physical, so he could get his permission forms for school sports signed and get the latest in the inoculations that kids get nowadays -- I feel so lucky that I only got shots like once every four years in my youth, he gets 2-3 a year. Despite this, and despite the fact that they tested his vision (he doesn't wear glasses so he doesn't see the ophthalmologist yearly as the rest of us do) and made him lie down for 15 minutes and eat a granola bar so he wouldn't get dizzy after the shots (he rejected the preservative-filled Kelloggs granola bar offered by the nurse so I went down to the store and got him a Nature's Valley bar), we were there for less time than we were at the MVA the day before.
I had four loads of laundry to fold when I got home, and
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