I have never been good at Columbine waltzes
with their spurred imitations and
My blossom lets go in late summer
with the Arrowleaf Balsamroot
and the acme efforts of August.
I spread out in a disorganized
scribble of forthright yellows,
am visited by buzzy asterisks
and dotted eyes,
skip the budding anticipations
I soak in the full Sturgeon moon
with its printer’s inky shadow,
shower beneath the
sparks of Persied.
All the Trillium in my shade
are bruised with pollination,
bear up the bracken that give away
their green to a dawn with
September on its breath.
The blue in my afternoon stretches
farther than a Heron’s trailing legs in flight,
remembers herself in the scarlet Kokanee’s
is in the softest Larch needles finding their golden age
when falling from the tree.