Thursday, August 31, 2006

I know a hill where the wild grass blows,
And the wind makes waves of the pink primrose;
The valley below is bright with gaillardia,
Indian paintbrush, and prairie verbenia.

In the large golden blossoms of prickly pear cactus
The velvety bees their concertos practice.
The smell of the sun on the green and gold pasture
Is mixed with the heady ambrosia of larkspur.

My memories are pungent with the scent of wild mustard
And sweet with heliotrope, echinacea and aster.
The bitter and spicy are mixed in my mind
And quite overgrown with wild trumpet vine.

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