I scour the side of the road
for wildflowers, what anyone

might call weeds, marsh rose,
primrose, quaker lady and those
not even the book has named.

I try to settle them
into a garden, false foxglove and pearly
everlasting, but they hang their heads.

Not the south side of the house,
not the stone wall,
it’s the road they want,

the rush of wind, the backlash
of winter sand and salt. They want
to be part of the scenery,

the surprise in the dust, what we take
for granted.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 3, on page 50
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