Orange canoe leaves and castling roots
and a potpourri of rocks and twigs and mosses
hailed my pathway.
Fresh, white flowers mingled with their rusted sisters
upon the ground, like copper-splashed jasper.
The canoe leaves curled
as the white and rusted flowers tumbled through them
like toppled teacups and feathered, Victorian party hats.
Their christened sisters mirrored them among the boughs above
and talked loftily about the treetops
as the fallen ones chattered amidst *******
and the roots dividing the tables of their tea party—
unaware, and heedless, of how far they’d fallen.