So much have I forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years! I have forgotten What time the purple apples come to juice, And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. I have ignored the particular, startling season Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting; What time of year the ground doves brown the fields And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. I still recall the honey-fever grass, But cannot recollect the great days when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow by-road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten–strange–but quite remember The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy Feasting upon blackberries in the hedge? Oh some, I know! I have anointed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame hearts shade. We were so happy, happy, I remember, Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December.
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