Gardenias are a withering glance,
A stare, triumph in decay,
Ambivalence and resumption,
Wonder about the mundane.They speak of fear of one's blood,
Of the things that grow in one's blood,
Of the things that grow on one's body,
Or out of it, or which die in it.They speak of movies in late-night theatres,
The smell of worn fabric, the reproof
Of salt, the challenge of old words
Resounding in a darkened hall.Last of all they speak of you,
Of silence at the core,
Of the thread of action
And how finely it is spun.- St. Clair Carr