Mastodawn

And is it stamina
that unseasonably freaks
forth a bluet, a
Quaker lady, by
the lake? So small,
a drop of sky that
splashed and held,
four-petaled, creamy
in its throat. The woods
around were brown,
the air crisp as a
Carr's table water
biscuit and smelt of
cider. There were frost
apples on the trees in
the field below the house.

-- From James Schuyler, "The Bluet"

Full poem available here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49716/the-bluet

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The Bluet

Unexpected as a tear when someone reads a poem you wrote for him: "It's this line here." That bluet breaks me up, tiny spring flower late, late in dour October.

The Poetry Foundation