Blackberry vines,
you hold this ground
in the shade of a willow:
all thorns, no fruit.
*
Pitcher sage, your fuchsia flowers
are crusted brown,
trading tenderness for seed.
*
Anna apple, you are barely four feet high,
but a pair of spotted globes depend
from one small branch—a twig, really.
*
Thistle down, you are softer
than the spines from which you blow,
but your sole purpose is to drift
and plant more pain.
*
Green toyon buds, brown at the mouth
then toothy white, the bees
are waiting for your good cheer.
*
Nasturtium, your orange joy
does not belong on this stream bank.
But still, you are welcome here.
*
Burnt section of log along the path,
what was it like to go up in flames
when the wind blew fire
down from the mountain?
—Paul Willis
