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.
