The bright, clear-eyed dream

Came early and was then laid to rest

The garden, the cloth and the clothes

All conspired to be synchronous music

But the years had to pass, too many of course

Before the flower took root.

It was a flaming gladiolus at first

Then it died down to a vine, obligingly dull.

Underground springs feed gloriously and silently

Memories nurture young and restless longings

We cannot know the work of the gods

As well as we know our own pain

Suffering brought it back

That beautiful flaming spear, the gladiolus

Now I know the power of the unseen and the unsaid

I know the strength of the young eye.

Carmella Weintraub, 1998