Vine
You ask, and I wonder,
but I know my mind;
here in the garden the columbine
spirals and curls, begging for rain,
and your words like thunder
echo from clouds;
I know your pain, but I am proud,
and here in the garden the rosy thorn
mocks me with a fitting scorn.
You ask, but the iris will pay you no mind
as the wind starts to hum
through the harp and the vine.
