by Holly Day
here, the daffodils fall back
as if they know their kind
does not yet belong, here,
in the preserved steppes once peopled
by trilobites and mastodons, the only
flowers that grow here
grow only here, digging roots in greenstone
and basalt, or against the base
of stunted jack fir and ironwood.
springtime, and there are no yellow blossoms
here; only blue and purple flowers spring
from the glacier plains, the occasional
red columbine providing the only intermission. sparrows try
desperately to find scattered seeds and berries
among the unfamiliar plants, not knowing
that these are flowers that blossomed
long before birds took wing.
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Holly Day is a journalism instructor living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her most recent nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities. Her poetry and fiction has most recently appeared in Willow Review, The Blotter, and Pinyon. |
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 