Every spring, I picked bright daffodils
in the sparse shade of a Bradford pear tree.
I made friends with the yellow flowers
and wrangled golden weeds.
I wove them together —
endless strings of sunglow bunched up tightly,
like cows lined up at the feedlot.
It wasn't a bouquet —
it was a herd.
I lived on the edge of town —
or on the edge of the countryside —
and I could see the sun rising over the highway from my bedroom window.
I was always looking for something
more interesting than pastures and meadows,
after living in a town where running yellow lights
is one of our favorite pastimes.
There was an island in the middle of the river,
which I could see from my grandmother's house.
She lived up the highway from us —
it was quite a distance, but
I was always willing to chase yellow lines,
to get up and go, to be somewhere different.
Out on the island, a lovely patch of goldenrod
whispered to me.
You can come visit us, but let us stay here.
It isn't so bad on the island,
even when the old river rises —
because we know this place,
because we know how to share this land,
because we share these roots,
because we've nestled here alongside each other.
