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MOTHERWORT

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Dreaming in the garden, I lie

Between rows of flowers,

Ashamed before those with keen, scientific noses

Who know the names of flowers.

All I recognize are roses.

Motherwort is not contained

By gardens; it doesn’t grow

Where I usually go.

Or maybe this mint-like leaf,

By the path in my daily walk, is the plant they say can cure my grief.

Perhaps at my feet, where I wait

For my train, is the solution to my fate,

A cure for one who has been a victim of flowers

Which I lie among, in a melancholy state, for hours.

Since the medical properties

Of motherwort dissolve in teas,

Let me take a drink

And I’ll tell you what I think.

For the experiment to succeed

I will go on a fast—except for this herbal weed.

If it makes me glad, then, I suppose,

I will eat the plant, motherwort, and forget the rose,

And be oblivious to every pretty reason why

She, in the garden, made me cry.

 



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