Eh, what the heck.
Ophelia in the Garden
O, Ophelia, don’t give me flowers
Pray, love, remember the time we
Made love in our garden
We lay in the crushed grass, breasts
Heaving, and the evening air
Smelled of fennel and rosemary.
O, my love, don’t give me flowers
Think of the time when we
Bought that potted little pansy
At the end of the season, lonely,
All her friends sold away. Remember?
We kept in the bedroom window.
My Ophelia, don’t give me flowers
Not Columbines, my favorite, once,
when I was young and foolish, and
dear, you must forgive young idiots
who try to change their hearts with flowers.
O, my dear, don’t give me flowers
There is no grace in that noxious herb
We ripped it out, cleared our garden,
You and I - what have we to rue?
There is no guilt, Ophelia: we have no sin.
O, sweet Ophelia, don’t give me flowers.
Stay, my love, and I’ll bring you daisies
From the field, see their yellow faces?
You used to love daisies, and violets
Velvet violets, on the kitchen sill.
Aiya, but they are dry and brittle now.
O, Ophelia, do not go down to the river
The snowmelt is not quite done
The bank is muddy, the willow
Where we often go in summer
It is still weak with newborn growth.
O, lover, there have been too many tears
And I have brought you foxgloves
from our garden. Pray, love, come.
Ophelia, my dear, my sweet, my love
Though by origin we may be writ by men,
Now, let us come out as women.