I By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen patches of standing water the scattering of tall trees All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines- Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches- They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter. All about them the cold, familiar wind- Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf One by one objects are defined- It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf But now the stark dignity of entrance-Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken
William Carlos Williams - 1883-1963
It Is a Small Plant
It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for green pods, blind lanterns starting upward from the stalk each way to a pair of prickly edged blue flowerets: it is her regard, a little plant without leaves, a finished thing guarding its secret. Blue eyes— but there are twenty looks in one, alike as forty flowers on twenty stems—Blue eyes a little closed upon a wish achieved and half lost again, stemming back, garlanded with green sacks of satisfaction gone to seed, back to a straight stem—if one looks into you, trumpets—! No. It is the pale hollow of desire itself counting over and over the moneys of a stale achievement. Three small lavender imploring tips below and above them two slender colored arrows of disdain with anthers between them and at the edge of the goblet a white lip, to drink from—! And summer lifts her look forty times over, forty times over—namelessly.