David Roberts
Wild Orchid
Waist deep and struggling
through rivers and streams
heart pounding over mountains
eyes wanting to meet the wild orchid.
Too late to see her opening
in tender arms of rampant green
she is crippled, lain flat, somehow
inertia weaves her a carpet.
In murderous quiet clouds
winter sun bares its heart
like a bloodied boxer rising
from the greying canvas.
This is the last time
that she will be counted out
as the snow invades all space
she will open no more.
Page(s) 109
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