And is it stamina <br />that unseasonably freaks <br />forth a bluet, a <br />Quaker lady, by <br />the lake? So small, <br />a drop of sky that <br />splashed and held, <br />four-petaled, creamy <br />in its throat. The woods <br />around were brown, <br />the air crisp as a <br />Carr's table water <br />biscuit and smelt of <br />cider. There were frost <br />apples on the trees in <br />the field below the house. <br />The pond was still, then <br />broke into a ripple. <br />The hills, the leaves that <br />have not yet fallen <br />are deep and oriental <br />rug colors. Brown leaves <br />in the woods set off <br />gray trunks of trees. <br />But that bluet was <br />the focus of it all: last <br />spring, next spring, what <br />does it matter? Unexpected <br />as a tear when someone <br />reads a poem you wrote <br />for him: 'It's this line <br />here.' That bluet breaks <br />me up, tiny spring flower <br />late, late in dour October.<br /><br />James Marcus Schuyler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bluet/
