A little poetry about a little flower
I once read something about how
the meek would inherit the earth
and it must be true—only look.
Every child knows the bright names of
Daisy and Buttercup sunning themselves
in mountain meadows.
Black-eyed Susan winks and waves.
But here, in grown over tracks,
on top of cold, windy mountains
where color is afraid to show,
you’ll find these.
Bluets the book says under
a picture of almost nothing.
Bluets for bare tinged petals
cupping a soft yellow center
like a pat of butter—like light.
Now leave the book and ask just folks.
They’ll say Quaker Ladies
and I prefer the peaceful point of that.