Wednesday, April 10, 2013

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

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