Vespers
More than you love me, very possibly
you love the beasts of the field, even,
possibly, the field itself, in August dotted
with wild chicory and aster:
I know. I have compared myself
to those flowers, their range of feeling
so much smaller and without issue; also to white sheep
actually gray: I am uniquely
suited to praise you. Then why
torment me? I study the hawkweed,
the buttercup protected from the grazing herd
by being poisonous: is pain
your gift to make me
conscious in my need of you, as though
I must need you to worship you,
or have you abandoned me
in favor of the field, the stoic lambs turning
silver in twilight; waves of wild aster and chicory shining
pale blue and deep blue, since you already know how
like your raiment it is.
Louise Glück
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2 comments:
you have marvelous taste in poetry.
also, please email me with your snailmail address.
eg, this poem is great. Lance gave us a book of Glucks poetry when we got married, and it is wonderful. Your blog is great, I hope you don't mind me spying in now and then (from the link on Joe's). Had a good time visiting with you at the basketball game.
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