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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,
Singular Speech Press, 1999.  Reprinted by permission
of the author.


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In A Mood Designs


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