She grew up from the earth, a delicate rose

She grew up from the earth, a delicate rose
beneath the Blue Ridge Mountains. Without fame
I sing about her anyway, I close
my eyes and meditate upon her name
and form. Since I was born I've wanted to know
about the whirling heavens, wanted to claim

her for myself alone. Philosophers claim
to know the object of this world. I rose
this morning from a dream and I don't know
if what I woke to was real. Is the fame
he's ashamed of a symptom of the name
of poet? Just as soon as I get close

to her she moves away, I move in close
to kiss her neck, to taste her skin and know
the flavor of her body. I can name
the planets in the evening, Venus rose
before the Sun this morning. Her white fame
is in the museum, a painter knows

just where to put the light, he has to know
the contours of her body. Words enclose
her self, disclose her vulgar, awful fame
to all the world. All I have left to claim
as my own possession is this dark rose
and her words I remember. I have names

for all the days and sounds, I have a name
for frog and cricket music. Now I know
how much it hurts to watch the delicate rose
wither without the water. I can close
my eyes and see her now, the mystic claims
that all the world is language. Without fame

a man's words can still move the world, the fame
we know in life is transient, our names
don't live as long as our songs. I exclaim
into the open spaces what I know
about love. I want now to hold her close
up to my body, smell the sensuous rose

and taste her skin. I rose and pulled her close
to me, uttered her name and found the fame
I sought, in her knowing I became reclaimed.