No wildflower man, but of all he saw
worth a mention once or twice
in his lifetime—suggesting value
in the time invested for a boy’s
inspection. Too delicate to touch,
what could we know of grace
refined by harsh survival,
each tangent honed to fit and fly
by millennia of failures?
Perhaps heaven-sent by night
to find transcending daylight
well-apart from the myopic zeal
of mortals, these long stems arched
above the grass on steep and damp
north slopes just waiting to be seen.