Wild Flower

(after Louise Gluck)

Part 1

You want to know what I am thinking?
I walk along the creek's edge, stopping
now and then to smell the wild
flowers, photograph their ephemeral
petals. I am compelled to catalogue
their brief existence: in fact
I am looking for strength.
Even though beautiful things
are short-lived, their beauty
will return. The smallest blooms
have the sweetest scent. I am tempted
to gather a bouquet, to hold on
to the scent, to press
the perianths. Always the white
petals fade to pink, then wilt
and drop. They leave behind
a seed head or some color berry.

Part 2

You want to see my face,
but I do not turn your way.
Your eyes follow me as I wind
my way along the full creek
and through the burgeoning woods.
You want to know what I am thinking.
I stop among the nodding trilliums,
count star flowers, touch anemone.
I stoop to pick one small white
bloom, unidentified. I bring
it to my nose. I still do not turn
your way. You see me as beautiful
again, it surprises you.
Later, you will read my journal,
find the names of wild flowers,
one small white blossom, pressed,
a poem growing along the margin.


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