Recovery

Hilda Raz

From: Divine Honors Wesleyan University Press, 1997

Spring

The fingers of the rain are tapping again.
I send out my heart's drum.
Blood stripe on the feathered tulip dissolves into
wet.
All night a low thrumming.

Up, up the two-toned hosta
green from sopped earth.
Along your bruised ribs, cream bells.

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