Wildflower Bottoms

So it was, each May,
an array of whites and yellows,

the jays calling from the canopy,
the shade dappled,

sunlight tumbling through the branches
like your blonde hair untied.

Through the middle
of the Elysian grasses, a rivulet ran—

clear water, spring-fed perhaps,
since, like a rainbow,

I could never find
the place from where it flowed.

So it was, too, with thoughts of you
that found me always

when alone—
proceeding, without reason,

from a region unknown,
a channel ever-blooming, and endless.

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