Bells and Stars

Were I to name the wildflowers,
they would go on being wild,
and I would become a little less so.

Along the rim trail, and deep in the north end of the dustless, green canyon, is an abundance of delicate flowers, poised on tender stems, calling out to the bees and butterflies in scented voices and soft hues. Some look like tiny stars; some have large petals; some hold up their faces; some hang and sway like bells. And in this atmosphere, the falls are thundering, the canyon walls are seeping and dripping, and, in many places, water is still standing or flowing across the path. In sunny spots, tiny blue butterflies flutter and dance. The maples are putting forth tender leaves, their branches deep in moss and sprouting ferns.

My arm is tired and the elbow sore from driving six-foot stakes
with an eight-pound sledge hammer the day before;
four miles later, the pain is gone, and the arm restored.

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