where flowers are. . .

a wildflower centers

even one wildflower

can be so exquisite

that no photo, no words, 

can really hold it close enough

to let it sing

the way it does

through the eye to the soul within,

and when, like today, every step on a trail

reveals garden after garden

of mossy rock ledges showcasing flowers,

of banks of trillium and blood root,

of hepatica and rue anemone,

and more, and more,

every step is a new showcase,

and then, when we climb past that extravagance,

within the drier world of heath

trailing arbutus subtly bedazzles us,

like bees to nectar, many are drawn here today

with book and camera and tripod,

and easy sharing of discovery,

for like the poet John Clare, two centuries ago,

we know that where flowers are,

what we know of God is, too,

and something deep within us feels released,

and free.



by Henry H. Walker

April 6, ’13