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Unto Each Thing
The spring my neighbors lost their son, their garden greened and swelled with bloom that burdened every slender limb and crowded the last crack of room
from hedge to hedge, until the eye was almost surfeited with much too much, smell wearied, skin recoiled from silk and velvet leaves to touch,
and mind ached with the gardener's back bent to the clacking of old shears over big, heavy-breasted blossoms gathering earthward like slow tears.
Rhina P. Espaillat
From
Landscapes with Women: Four American Poets,
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