Flowers Are a Form of Vertigo
So little safe footing,
yet we long to linger
here among wildflowers,
scattered like prayers that fell
just short of heaven—
linger longer with purple gentian,
sky pilot, blue forget-me-not,
yellow Rocky Mountain buttercup
on a slope more suitable
for pica, marmots, bighorn sheep—
not meant for head-heavy bipeds,
as rivulets of snowmelt
undermine our feet.
It’s as if we fell
from a remote star,
the way we’re so seldom
at home in this world—
forever roaming
in search of a settled place,
where unlike petals coexist.
Rash words like loose rocks
throw lives off balance.
Storm clouds gather
over the steep terrain
of the heart
and we tumble,
pressing wildflowers
into the gilded afternoon.
© 2020 Lew Forester
first published in Blue Mountain Review
