By John Malcolm Brinnin
What reasons may the single heart employ
When, forward and impervious, it moves
Through savage times and science toward the joy
Of love’s next meeting in a threatened space?
What privilege is this, whose tenure gives
One anesthetic hour of release,
While the air raid’s spattered signature displays
A bitter artistry among the trees?
Thus, in our published era, sweetness lives
And keeps its reasons in a private room;
As, in the hothouse, white hibiscus proves
A gardener’s thesis all the winter through,
So does this tenderness if waiting bloom
Like tropics under glass, my dear, for you.Back to Blog