I watched you walk down into the valley barefoot,

the pained trail downward upon the crags and snags

and gravel between patches of weeds,

unkempt shag of prairie grasses drying under heat.

I winced, too, as you recoiled by the sharp

intrusion of loose peeves digging into

flesh of your instep. But you descended farther.

Despite the stings of every other step,

your smile brightens with fingers waving

across the low shrubbery of anise hyssops,

colic roots, clusters of dogbane and pasture

thistles beside the uncombed trail.

You find them: the delicately peach-fuzzed

petals of milky mauve prairie gentians

stretching widely, desperate

to drink in all the sunlight of this field.

You stoop to pluck the bright orange bitterweed

flowerheads—like even wilder, fiercer

dandelions—twirling in the waft of sweet air.

I feel like losing you.

You quicken the gathering of blossoms—all I can do is watch.

You’re going from me? Am I too ordinary

a flower for your bundle? Or worse…

a mere weed in a common bed?

I beg you,

in the silence of my selfish desires,

drop the sprays you’ve gathered and make

the difficult climb back. So sure am I

that you won’t—I don’t need

the nourishing dews and wither?

I have lost to the wilder blooms.