Bloodroot in March

1.

Regardless of the year, it’s the first
flower seen on my daily hikes, pushing

through every November’s abandoned
duvet of tan and umber — a patchwork

of ash, oak, maple, and hickory. I pause,
eyelids unspooled, like a tired window

blind, and inhale the forest’s green
anticipation.

2.

Willingly, this could be my last breath —
absorbing the effortless geometry

of these eight ivory petals, rising
from leaves mimicking round Japanese

fans from the 1840s.

3.

How is it that small perfections can both
both break, and reassemble us — as

if we were Adam or Eve on day one
of the completed world — mouths agape

at finding the first flower?

Gary D. Grossman
Streetlight Magazine November 2023