Jeannette Augustus Marks,
Willow Pollen
“ Green flame of flight to the very tip!” I looked into the bowl, wondering: And night and dawn mingled And sleep stirred And the day turned in its dream, And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip. Then I took the bowl in my two hands, Thanking God. But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more, Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leaves Beaten by frozen wind. There is no rain to soften sleep, No day like topaz in the sun, I see the larch crumble to ash,— My arms grow numb back to the very heart Holding this bowl God gave to me! ”
