The Indian paintbrush stands guard,
like one who shall not be moved,
sentinel next to the sage— and grasses—
whose roots she taps for nutrients and water.

John at the cross stands guard too
like a stem, or branch.
“You are the branches. I am the vine,”
the lover had said.

And, now, planted like the Indian Paintbrush,
the beloved is hushed as a blossom,
the upper lip of green flower understated
and tinged with red to attract the hummingbird.

The meadow is a green upper room
alive now with the whir of wings.