This isn’t a poem about joy, but of what grows around it. A vining thing — glossy,

clandestine, fiddlehead-coy

and arnica-bright near forget-me-not blue. It bursts

vivid as the unconstrained sea — and brief as its bore tide. Like us

it opens beneath June’s 

un-perforated sky — single-minded, vast, timeless as moments 

in willow, birch. I kneel, overexposed in anemone-pale and 

cranberry-pink — 

and break with each blossom of Labrador tea.

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