The wild pinks
are wilder this year,
their tiny petals, a profusion,
though yarrow and oxeye daisy
are ever the same.

I used to walk these fields
and nod to the flowers without
knowing their names.
In that absence of words,
I was less attuned to timing
or upward, downward trends.

Still, I wonder what
uncountable thing might
have broken off at the stem
the moment I learned
to clench a life
between my teeth and tongue.