Canyon born,
sipping the wisdom of Grande Ronde
from weathered springs from deep within
pebble jeweled ground.
I sing their songs in the golden hush of morning
as I feast upon the sun,
low, root-deep,
native as the wild wind that dances with me,
fingertip to fingertip
petals flaring red with rare fire.
They once sought after me for medicine,
an ample stem for leaning on
with their tongue-tied cracks
until their fear captivated me,
forced me into containers,
made for befriending hummingbirds
that drink of me so they can soar
sideways shuffling away
with their self-important iridescence.
I may not outlive this cell,
plucked away from the sweet summer grass
that taught me to plant seeds.
Those sprinkles claim the clay anew,
re-rooting my lineage.
The legacy of my blooms lives on
in the whispers of butterflies,
and the hum of the earth.