it was purple dead nettle between the rows of dead corn
it took me hours to identify the purple-black flower
i tucked behind my ear at Muscatatuck. mainly since they
hadnt bloomed. when they finally will, theyll be yellow, anyhow.
thats why. Pliny the Elder would have it that hawks eat the
H. caespitosum, or hawkweed, to improve their eyesight.
the yellow forest flower just bursting forth, with the
camouflage-patterned leaves looked like trilium
turns out to be trout lily. its purple deadnettle grows
between the dead corn leftovers, in purple waves
pastel as an Easter basket. spring beauties weave
a gentle carpeting between the trees where i half-expected
fawns to be dreaming. and the the fur-seed you picked up
on the trail briefly belongs to the sycamore. they have
been the ornaments weve seen dangling since the fall.
i examined garlic mustard yet to flower by the pond
while you recalibrated, wolfing down great gulps of water
in the car. turns out garlic is wide, and hollow, branches
off from the main stem while the wild onions rather emerge
from the base, so solid and flat. the first time i made out
with a boy it was in a field of garlic; mosquitoes devoured
my delicate hind. i would take you down right now in these
woods except you are immaculate.
we drag our filthy feet over common blue violets creeping.
even the oaks have dropped everything in order to stand
the salmon river birch bark, unruffling like collars worn by
Amadeus, while the leaves of the ghostly white-yellow
beech yet hold out, thin now as a ratsnake skins been dried,
or our resolve, thinner than money. they let the light be.
Bree is a poet and artist living in Pleasureville, KY. Her Green Panda Press has produced books and ephemera of the very small poetry press since 2001. She is very much a fan of the bards in her old hometown-city Cleveland, OH. She says today in particular she misses them all.