after John Donne
 
I wonder at tiny wildflowers, kneel.
Blooms tangled, jagged, entire, alive.
Toothwort thrust their pods of seed,
small samurai swords guard arriving
new pearls. Bloodroot petals bruised 
near fallen twigs will only last a day
and then lift the green swollen future
 
toward Spiderwort, spill forth a display.
We bloom with sky wheel’s bright nail,
rising within the spring of life and root.
Even a crushed Mayapple in the trail
which requires us, sometimes, to move
and reattach life to soil and the forage 
of turtles, until it forgives disturbances.
 
Declining coy blooms declare a westing.
So we kneel at wild gardens edge, near
Goldenseal, listen to the sky clear calls
of an unringing Bluebells forming seed.
The first drooping wilt of these simple
tattered crowns into an old common dirt
of years past is saying, yes we are still here.