1.5.11

Wildflowers



Wildflowers

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page  
of them, all beginning with the letter b.  
Guidebooks preserve our knowledge
of their hues and shapes, their breeding.
Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—
like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—
out of their lovely names.
At the edge of the prairie in a cabin
when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard   
a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar  
where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—
seem to blow with the announcing winds outside  
as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin
of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.


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