Plucked

Log chalet ahead

Tired feet below

The Dents du Midi beyond

Hazy then, clear now.

“Cowbell or church bell?” Cowbell.

“Why du Midi?” You know how a sundial works.

“Forget-me-not or violet?” Neither. A purple bluebell.

I bend to pick it, and my grandmother’s alto offers another lesson.

“Let it grow, and you may enjoy it again tomorrow.”

Hazy then, clear now.

I have been dried on a windowsill

Displayed in a vase in the entryway.

Where were their grandmothers’ loving altos?

I had dropped petals and pushed down roots in my alpine meadow

When you passed by with a cup of water.

I braced for an attempted plucking.

On hands and knees

You pulled the weeds

Removed the rocks

And made your drink my own.

Each day you return

And we grow together.

Hazy then, clear now.

New Orleans, 22 May