"Electra, Waiting" by Laurie Sheck

This is the solace of the soil: wet with slaughter
it still knows no tyranny nor treason;

the smallest flower
finds its place between the rocks,

the shallow-rooted cactus hoards water in its stem,
it lives on what is hidden.

Each night through my window I see how the moon
loves the earth from a great distance,

never drawing near.
Some nights she hides most of her face.

I hide in the smallest chamber of the palace.
I have heard of a tree

which blossoms only once each hundred years.
It keeps its deepest nature

secret; many must believe it barren.
How patient the earth is! — its winter trees,

its mountains diminishing more slowly than can be seen.
Each year I cut my hair

and place it on my father's grave.
The bitter tree which grows there

sways gently in the wind; I rest my hands
between its branches as if between his hands.

Nights I serve his enemies their food.
But each day that tree grows stronger,

its leaves like vultures casting shadows on the land,
vigilant as prophecy, more faithful than kind.