Southward into the indescribable
foglike something that gathers beneath the trees
I crest a hill to reveal the sun, orange and distinct,
above empty farmland in the distance.
This is the moment I know what I made a wrong turn for:
The fields in their American two-lane road version of Europe
glinting in the impressionist style, with the way the golden wildflowers
grow at the exact shade to enhance the warm glow
like they were made for this one minute.
I return to the familiar question: why would one be so unkind
as to divide weeds from flowers, to designate the ones that grow on their own
as something to be cut away, trespassers
to their own field?
Why not plant dandelions in the windowsills?