Wild White Roses by a Creekbed in June
Motionless, they seem to wheel
And glow, upstream there, like bad stars, Scrapped and floating in a pile, Too hot to touch. But no, they aren’t
Quite still—their falling, gathering,
And lifting back so slowly, bent So shallowly, could be the path Of hour-old or coming wind.
The highest are face-high, film-thin
And flat, with the petals splayed, not cupped. They’re just a little colder than The air. They feel too smooth to touch.
It’s June and, otherwise, it’s drought.
What snow the creek did get, the roots Must have gripped, to grow such white From earth cracking beneath the spruce,
Quartz-white, where now a spider lightly
Adjusts its perch, biting the collar Of a small, barely twitching bee Whose face is smothered in pollen.
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