Naming the Wildflowers

You walk along the banks of a reedy river
where cattails have burst like spent fireworks used at the party
where you've spent most of your life.
A piece of driftwood floats on the water.
You want to pluck it out and keep it,
but you can't reach it.
You think about capturing it...
making a lamp of it,
but wildflowers whisper,
they tap at your temple.
Their colors call to you
like old friends.
So many of them,
but most have no name that you can recall.
You forget about the driftwood and the lamp
and all the light that you would have made from it.
You settle into the task of putting names to all the wildflowers
so that you always
remember
their colors.

Pamela Wilonski