was the metaphor,
there all along at our feet,
their small petaled heads
poking out of the grass
like yellow lights
that say: Slow down.
Stop, and think awhile.
Look at them all,
how they lean for the sun
just like us.
If they're lucky, I thought,
they do their sweet time unmolested,
are never subjected to the fork-tongued weeder,
the blade of the mower, the poisons
that leave you twisted and dying
in the service of civilization.
Here is a white spirit,
my daughter said to me. It was evening
and she was handing me one, old and
fragile; it curled in my palm.
Don't let it blow away just yet, she whispered.
Let's make it last as long as we can.