Blackberry vines,
you hold this ground
in the shade of a willow:
all thorns, no fruit.
*
Pitcher sage, your fuchsia flowers
are crusted brown,
trading tenderness for seed.
*
Anna apple, you are barely four feet high,
but a pair of spotted globes depend
from one small branch—a twig, really.
*
Thistle down, you are softer
than the spines from which you blow,
but your sole purpose is to drift
and plant more pain.
*
Green toyon buds, brown at the mouth
then toothy white, the bees
are waiting for your good cheer.
*
Nasturtium, your orange joy
does not belong on this stream bank.
But still, you are welcome here.
*
Burnt section of log along the path,
what was it like to go up in flames
when the wind blew fire
down from the mountain?
—Paul Willis
The Possibility of Possibility
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