hither my heather

“Don’t wait for someone to bring you flowers. Plant your own    
garden and decorate your own soul.”—Luther Burbank    
   
i sought my heather at
the break of day,    
hunting her fragrance, moth  
to glowing flame.    
november, then her charms    
shall fade away,    
and i shall have myself    
alone to blame.    
    
i need no buttercups    
or daffodils,    
no daisies, hyacinths,    
or myrtle bloom;    
this heatherache, so swift,    
my spirit kills,    
its antidote to kiss    
her lips' perfume.    
     
no purple dream has flown    
me to the moon,    
as has her metaphor    
my iambs moved.    
her heather seeds in bloom    
late summers swoon,    
to medicine the heart,    
broken, that loved    
     
to wander by the streams    
where she has sipped    
the early morning dew    
of quietude.    
hither my heather, where
hope's solemn script    
endorses grace that ends    
my solitude.    
     
© Copyright 2021 November 15    
by Clyve A. Bowen♫