I have lived on the far side of the forest.
I have lived on the cliff edge of the sea.
Open mesa, fertile flatland, city boroughs,
everywhere and nowhere at all, unrooted
and free all my life. Oregon sunshine
with shallow roots and an easy bloom,
a plant a Portland gardener claims
is easy to kill with too much kindness,
best suited to live in the weedy stretch
of a “nothing-will-grow-there parking strip.”
On a hike in a boulder field, my lover
bends to tighten the lace of my boot,
a lace grown brittle with miles and mud.
He speaks of mechanics—arches and insoles—
as he kneels by my feet. I drift away
for there, past the treeline, is a tuft of yellow,
Oregon sunshine burning bright near the sky.
My restless feet begin to itch.
I have lived on the far side of the forest.
I have lived on the cliff edge of the sea.
But here, in this desolate place with you,
I reach for a clump of nearby blooms
to hang and dry and harvest and plant
in the garden plot outside our window.
From our bed, I’ll watch the seasons pass,
thunderheads and hailstorms, sleepy sun
and steady sky, and the roots of these seeds
tucked here in my pocket will settle deep
into verdant ground far from any parking strip.
I reach for a second handful of blooms.
I slip my hand into yours.