Some flower seeds
lie dormant for years
until one day
when sun, wind and rain
conspire to disclose
their fragrance.
Even in life, storms
disclose the faces
of true friends.
See the columbine
on the rocky outcrop
lying wait, and
springing up improbably
against the cliff-side trail.

The field guide to flowers tries
to help, offering perfect shots
of pristine flowers at the peak
of color, petals perfectly poised.
Yet when I walk through meadows,
the flowers I see are curled or crumpled,
either not yet or no longer perfectly unfurled,
like an umbrella half-opened or a flag
at half-mast. I try to identify,
to give each a name: hopeless task,
like wading through old black-and-white
photographs stored in cardboard boxes
in the attic, some of them strangely colorized
with pastel pencils. Do you recognize
the faces of your ancestors,
your great-grandparents and so on,
by their features? So it is
with flowers. In photos, the perfectly
fleshed out blossoms each occupy a single frame,
like a stamp, with no contrasting elements.

Imagine the botanist,
camera in hand,
stalking the wild blossom.
The thrill of sighting
the perfect blossom
must delight
like the first bite
of a perfectly ripened apricot.

As I walk, the field of gilia
weeps into the ground,
spending blossoms like pennies
rolling into a fountain.
To the fuzzy fly and bee,
wilted branches of fleabane
must smell as sweet
as any other blossom.
Thistle wears a thick coat
of armor to protect his scrappy blossom,
while the wild rose’s dewclaw
does nothing to obstruct
the rose’s intoxicating fragrance.

Spruce trunk: mast for a ship
with neither sail nor oar.
Clouds roll through
carrying storms
from the sea.

After a long hike
it’s hard to distinguish
the snore of my dog
from the buzzing of a fly.

Aspen on the hillside:
thin-shingled forest cover.

When the flower
blossoms,
she unfurls her
weightless petals.

One stalk,
many blossoms.

From red paintbrush leaves
Green pointed blossoms emerge
Like beaks round their nest.

Blink. Blink and you might miss it.
Lavender wisp of sunset intertwined
with gold. Rustle in the grass. Streak
of bird. The momentary reflection
when the angle of light reflects off
an ornately spun spiderweb. Blue throat
of pinyon jay. Pearls of water
splashing in the sun. On the highway,
you crossed into the left lane
when you saw the black car parked
on the shoulder. Then we both saw the young
father carefully walking back towards
the parked car, arms clutching his
young child tightly against his chest.
And just a few paces behind him:
a mile marker, a simple roadside cross.
We too are stardust, traveling with the speed
of light, and we don’t even
know it.

On the jawbone, laughlines;
at the top, a hook
from which it hung once,
jawing; each molar,
a cell for contemplation;
the honeycomb of the marrow,
a labyrinth; the entirety
of the jawbone striated
like woodgrain
and not unlike a branch.

This, too, grew toward the light.