Larkspur

Canyon born,

sipping the wisdom of Grande Ronde

from weathered springs deep within

pebble jeweled ground.

I sing their songs in the golden hush of morning

as I feast upon the sun,

low, root-deep,

native as the wild wind that dances with me,

fingertip to fingertip

petals flaring red with rare fire.

They once sought after me for medicine,

an ample stem for leaning on

with their tongue-tied cracks

until their fear captivated me,

forced me into containers,

made for befriending hummingbirds

that drink of me so they can soar

sideways shuffling away

with their self-important iridescence.

I may not outlive this cell,

plucked away from the sweet summer grass

that taught me to plant seeds.

Those sprinkles claim the clay anew,

re-rooting my lineage.

The legacy of my blooms lives on

in the whispers of butterflies,

and the hum of the earth.