Up at the corner, she gave her a blood-root flower
With white petals and the scarlet ooze
Where the stem was broken. She said, In my country
The feet of spring are stained with the red blood,
The women go into the hills with flowers
Dark like blood, they have a song of one
Dead and the spring blossoming from his blood—
And he comes again, they say, when the spring comes.
She gave the flower with soft fingers. She said,
That is an old story,—it might not be true.
But who knows where the roots drink: they go deep.
4
