Broom.

It seemed so easy then,
Green-ringed in magic on a hill apart,
Pressing the coolness to my throbbing heart,
To own myself again;
To know I could go down,
Down to the dimming blue of towns and seas,
Holding within myself the strength of trees,
And the dark mountain's frown.
Stark as the rock I turned,
Firm as the woody pith, but by my way
The molten petals of the broom-flower burned,
Flowed through and o'er me, drowned me, swept me clean,
And of my self's dark fortress that had been
Left nought behind.
I, that had been away,
Came back in humbleness and flowered
simplicity to what I'd spurned.

—E.W.