Along the dried out roads grow yellowed yarrows, sand verbena.
And, under the cold, west-bent, beach-pines, on needle-littered trails,
even these, along fermenting run-off,
bloom, the fluorescence of skunk cabbage.
Heavy-horned stag’s refuse these heads who’ve developed a stink,
step along, and so the flowers quietly, wildly, spread.
What town can deal with the invasive scotch broom? Witches,
roots, like gnarled fingers, have their sagey, cagey grab, deep,
within the badlands. Developers compulsed to raze with backhoe, finish
the bury with thick, pounded, leveled, cement. One who cries alone,
those dry nights, makes her stalked calls itchy and brittle,
works her way again, at crumbling limestone and lye.
You’ve underestimated the symbiosis stings, the mud wasps,
red-ants and scorpions, stings of desert fire, the immortal power,
conferred daughters, and mothers-in-law of Moab, who gather,
single grains, in order to wake, again, and again and again. For we,
bear Kings! Adeptly braid hoary alyssum, hookers onion, columbine,
into blooming wildflower crowns.
Photo Credit: Alysa Bajenaru/unsplash