Flame-Heart
So much have I forgot in ten years,
So much in ten brief years. I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special startling season
Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia’s red, blood-red, in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose apple.
I have forgotten – but strange – but quite remember
The poinsettia’s red, blood red, in warm December.
Claude McKay
