Ginger Williams


The wind knows how to
write the names of flowers:
yellow cow bell, cornsilk
lust in a basket, cloudy minuet
tight-lipped scrimmage
curly-leafed memories.

The sun riding
on a mountain’s edge
intones them on the horizon:
baby’s blush, firebush, queen’s crown
purple choke berry, wild sunset ribbons
cloudy lace.

Write down the name
of a flower you say
and I write as if you’re
just newborn: love in a lily
hope’s heartbeat, April silk cress
pink-patterned bloodroot

These words pass through
me into you
with your breathing, with your growing:
mantel of mantra, singing bells
light-footed creeper
twining blue-eyed ivy.

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