Steepletop

            I

Even Sweet Basil: even you,
Lemon Verbena: must exert yourselves now and somewhat 
     harden
Against untimely frost; I have hovered you and covered you and 
     kept going smudges,
Until I am close to worn-out. Now, you
Go about it. I have other things to do,
Writing poetry, for instance. And I, too,
Live in this garden.

            II

Nothing could stand
All this rain.
The lilacs were drowned, browned before I had even smelled
     them
Cool against my cheek, held down
A little by my hand.
Pain
Is seldom preventable, but is presentable 
Even to strangers on a train—
But what the rain
Does to the lilacs—is something you must sigh and try 
To explain.

            III

Borage, forage for bees
And for those who love blue,
Why must you,
Having only been transplanted
From where you were not wanted
Either by the bee or by me
From under the sage, engage in this self-destruction? 
I was tender about your slender tap-root.
I thought you would send out shoot after shoot 
Of thick cucumber-smelling, hairy leaves.
But why anybody believes
Anything, I do not know. I thought I could trust you.