The Bleeding-heart: a poem by Mary Oliver
 
          I know a bleeding-heart plant that has thrived  for sixty years if not more, and has never  missed a spring without rising and spreading  itself into a grassy bush, with many small red  hearts dangling. Don't you think that deserves  a little thought? The woman who planted it  has been gone for a long time, and everyone  who saw it in that time has also died or moved  away and so, like so many stories, this one can't  get finished properly. Most things that are  important, have you noticed, lack a certain  neatness. More delicious, anyway is to  remember my grandmother's pleasure when  the dissolve of winter was over and the green  knobs appeared and began to rise, and to cre-  ate their many hearts. One would say she was  a simple woman, made happy by simple  things. I think this was true. And more than  once, in my long life, I have wished to be her.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
