Wildflowers
Aspen leaves flutter like birds
as a breeze ponders the lake's surface
and I brush away a willow leaf of cold jade.
Soon there will be a face in the moon
with its familiar brow arched
over what should be cornflowers
now residing beyond the lambent braids
of feral rye and muscled hillocks.
A miracle in cerulean sprouts in distant concrete,
a bluebell behind a sheet of glass,
unaware of the secret I share with wildflowers,
nor a memory of snow where appeared
an epiphany of morning glories.
I stumbled a dandelion kiss
to be blown on one's lashes, but it disappeared
in a gust of diesel smoke, the shriek of pads
on brash steel.
The rings of felled dogwoods measure seasons
cyan skies ignore. Each spring revealed the promise
of lapis daisies, the rush of violets.
Late summer left barren spikes of amaryllis.
It's been many thaws since I awaited the shy crocus.
Posted 10/3/23
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