shadowfireflame

Based on observations of Middlefork Savannah.

Blind

Hold my hand and let me describe to you

The beauty of this flower in this savannah.

You cannot see, but here—

Lie back off the path a little

And rest in the grasses.

Do you feel the lush wet leaves on this plant?

Or the spiky stem brush your cheek?

Do you feel the wind push the trees push the flowers

Push the grasses push you?

A honeybee sways off his flight path on a gust of wind.

Feel the grass—are the blades smooth? Are they rough?

Are they dry? Are they moist?

Can you tell by touch if they are dying?

Listen—can you hear the bees and the flies,

The cicadas and sparrows and songbirds?

Do you hear the trees? They whisper to each other.

When it’s windy they grow upset and murmur

Reassurances to each other.

Sometimes they speak so loudly they drown our every other thing.

Breathe. Close your eyes.

Feel the cool drops of rain against the warm sun

And the wind brushing tufts of cotton and pollen and dry leaves and seeds onto you.

But this flower—oh, this one is a beauty.

No, don’t pick it, but touch. How peculiar.

It is a little sun, purple with a drop of sunshine yellow in the center.

Feel its texture, so very soft. You can barely feel the petals, can you?

Yet they are there. The center—touch it with the pad of your thumb, gently, gently.

A little grainy, perhaps. That is because the center of this little sun

Is made up of many tiny grains of pollen.

Little rough leaves at the base of its head attaching it to the stem.

Touch the stem. You could cut it so easily with your thumbnail.

This is the chain anchoring this ship to the sea as it sways and rocks on the wind.

The stem seems smooth and segmented, does it not?

As if assembled by a great botanist

With a very creative mind and a gluestick,

Recreating the rays of the sun with little purple ones on earth

That feed off the master, sucking in air and sucking up dirt,

Turning their small faces to the warm to bloom.