(Dicentra formosa)Finally, a flower after my own. You there, hangingin unashamed bivalve clusters at the feet of ancient cedars.So few of them left, you know. Is that what breaks you? Is thatwhat makes you wear your sweet pink ventricles on your green sleeve? —Rockport State Park
False Solomon’s seal, you trade in frankincense and myrrh, filling the forest with your fragrance.There is a wisdom in the ladder of your leaves, clasping their way to each perfusion of scent and blossom.Multiplied beneath the sunlit spaciousness of Douglas fir, you make a Milky Way of stars, as if the skies had pouredthemselves into our lap, born again as a field of flowers, one vast aroma, calling us to a true home. —North Cascades National Park
Starry, starry Solomon’s plume,your constellations floatin clusters lowly wise,zig-zagging asterisks of light,reminding thick and shaggy cedars,though they breach the nether skies,that even smallest things may bearrayed on earth as they are in heaven.
—North Cascades National Park
After the fire, houses in the chaparralstart up again like new shoots of poison oak.The resilience of nature? The powerof habit? The shallows of the human mind?
We keep building on the flood plain,kicking steps up the avalanche chute,camping out on the crumblinglip of the volcano.
Those hollow figures at Pompeii,crouched in the admission of error,became the casts for Rodin’s Thinker.Think about it.
In Korea, there are a hundred different menwho claim to be returned messiahs(not counting their messiah wives)—and thousands who erect their faith upon this sand.
And here in the U.S. of A., cutting sagebrushin my yard, the dry winds parting my lips,I feel right at home with the rest,making do, claiming ground.
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