Flower

I picked this flower from the cliff for you.
On the ledge of an outcrop over the tide,
where the eagle sees himself reflected
in the calm salt pool below, it sprang
from a cranny in the rock. Shadow bathed
the flanks of the dark basalt. Overhead,
where the sun had been that day, a porch of clouds
was building up toward night. Sails dwindled
into the distance. Lamplight shone
from houses on the valley floor, as dim
as if they feared now to be seen. I picked
this flower for you, my love, though, pale,
it had no scent, or showy crown.
Its root drew nothing from the cliffside
but a bitterness like that of seaweed.
So I said, “Flower, from your deathbed here,
you would have fallen before daybreak
where the seaweed, clouds, and sails come only,
all of them, to be dispersed. Die now instead
on a human heart, abyss though it may be
yet deeper. Wither against the breast
in which a world is beating. The sky
has given you to flourish over the waves,
and by the waves be taken, but I take you
in my hand, to give you now for love.”
The wind stirred over the tide,
and nothing of the day was left to fade
but afterglow. How sad it was to think,
even of you, my love, and feel that black gulf
spill into my soul with the chill of evening!