I am unsure as to where this flower ends
or where it began. The small connecting limbs, hidden behind
the round series of heads, the seeding
centers, their odd tears around the edges
like teeth.
There is something oddly promising
about these flowers—you see, they have appeared
in my poems before. As children, as wind, even
a voice—never
as themselves,
in all their fierceness, in all their beauty. I love them
like I love so many things that are hidden
out-of-doors. Under all that sun, behind
another root system, in the neighbor’s
backyard. Sometimes I spy them in stranger places—
a vacant
frying pan, pieces shredded
in a bird’s nest. You could bring them to me
and I would plant them.
You could bring them to me
and I would be happy. In the quiet way that these flowers
are beautiful.
Bring them. I promise—
like wind.