Poem 42: O Forsythia

O, forsythia, all through my need for you
that is to say March, that is to say decades
All the gray days in my gray house, the gray
days of my dry youth. At the hardware store,
they said I couldn't kill you. They said,
You'll have to fight this one back.
And here you are, a smack of yellow
across my face. Can I confess, I've wanted
to bury my face in your petticoats,
I've wanted to prowl the streets
muttering about rivers, about melting.
I've always loved the river, even when
it was low and you could see the ribs
of rock. That brick gatehouse, diverting
water for the canal. O forsythia,
it's Spring and they're coming to take
away my bloom. How I find myself
staring at the fervid buds of the Magnolia,
even my pink rhododendron. Crocus hips,
tulips, all that reaches out of the earth
to bloom. Forsythia, when they take it
will you be there? Forsythia, will you tell me
you'll still burn yellow for my sake?