8am-light is bursting through
My shades as I take my shower.
Once I dress myself, I reheat
The coffee my wife left me.
I step outside to be met by
The crisp air of waning summer.
Like every day, I notice the
Vibrant boa scarf of purple wildflowers
That adorn the shoulders of
Wheeler and Monitor.
The sky is not falling, and
It is true what has been said,
'The fear of something happening
Is worse than it actually happening.'

I'm collecting dead wildflowers in a jar.
I've been watching their color fade,
wondering just how dull they
may grow at the end of each day.
I leave them in my windowsill
and let the sun drain them of sustenance.
It's quite interesting how easily
an item of livelihood
can lead to such tribulation.

The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground.  Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages.  Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic.  Fireweed, *****, unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone.  Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows.  Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing.  There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails.  Paradise lost may never be regained.

In my photo album there's a black and white snapshot from your old Kodak camera. I'm sitting upon your stalwart shoulders with a backdrop of mountainous desert. Upon your height my head is above the hills my smile brighter than the whole blue sky.

I still remember that day. We went to Picacho Peak with a picnic lunch and climbed through the rocks, investigated the arroyos. The desert was alive with wildflowers. I collected some and brought them to you - you named every one.
Bluish-purple lupine. Yellow rabbit's bush.
Orange African daisies. Bright desert poppies. Indian paintbrush, flaring strokes of carmine fire. Pale pink globe mallow.

You have such a brilliant mind, a scientist in love with nature. I think you collected some seed to plant with the cacti in your backyard garden...

I still remember. It was a day that stands like that peak in my memory. The breeze in my curls way up high, upon those mountainous shoulders. It whispered to me of the desert spirits. And our guardian angels sang of the wonders of freedom.

I know you heard it, too.


♡ your daughter,
                   Catherine


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/20/2016