I Do Not Know The Guelder Rose, The Bracken's Rain

[to Emily Bronte]

I do not know the guelder rose,

the bracken's rain that darkly falls;

the thistled word; the whistling

of strange storms around

the eaves of others' houses.

I sang, but I could never own

the milkmaid songs;

the jewels flung out by handfuls

in the throstled woods.

and I could not curtsy

in a velvet gown to those

whose towns I could not pronounce:

knowing that if I settled there

they would not bring me

cups of sugar; load me with presents

and it not even a feast day.

why, I wondered, is it so?

because I've not a guelder rose,

because I only call them fern

that curl around the creek beds?

I learned another English-

spare me yours, I said.

they looked clear through

and thought me dead.

I do not know the guelder rose

I said and said.

forgive me for such

small things neglected.

I know a story where one

rose plucked in snows

brought misery to the dearest.

even so, four rose bushes

come to mind in simple rain

and live forever where my

grandfather planted them

in our backyard and in my heart.

and I am not ashamed.

;

mary angela douglas 4 september 2014;rev. 5 september 2014