There’s so much industry and comfort
In places of winter and war.
Indian goddess, beautiful and sad,
Your tears are pathetic. They make me mad.
The best actresses are angry actresses.
Our tragedies last but a day.
In Massachusetts, tragedy is far, far away.
I took the train into town
To buy my red haired daughter a beautiful wedding gown.
Now, in Massachusetts, it’s finally green.
The winter which made us dream of heaven is over.
At every flower a flower-hungry bee is seen.
Starving bees are feeding in the clover,
Enslaved by their needy queen.
We called need, “necessity,” in the science lab.
In the winter mud, I called you a cab
On a whim—I didn’t know you then—
And when you fell in love with me,
I increasingly dreamed in poetry.
The bees, in the green, are making repairs.
Our heaven runs parallel to theirs,
Their working hum a background to our music.
It’s finally green, and every secularist is happy;
Every feminist and communist is happy,
Because green is the true heaven.
Ask any bee.
I only need your love. What’s mere heaven to me?