A bunch of glads,
certainly highly emblematic of creation,
remote from frills of working blossom with hope of fruit:
slow, durable, placid,
generous, sure of kingly dreams.
All else is natural world and intellect!
Over there the mutton herds:
strenuous ends of clover and daggy sheep—
here friendly talents,
pushing Anna to the center of attention,
explaining her, finding a solution!
The glads offer no solution:
you mustn’t count the days—
livid, tattered, or beautiful.
Source: Poetry (November 2009).
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This poem originally appeared in the November 2009 issue of Poetry magazine