In the torn earth along a mountain road
where progress had made nature a confusion
of scarred and upturned rocks and roots laid bare
I found the scarlet gilia in profusion
as if it were its native meadowland.
In fact, there seemed more there than anywhere,
as if it tried to prove some vital point
or send some message I might understand.
Whether its intent, I didn’t know,
its language being different from ours,
but it seemed to be that it was telling me
by its presence in a place tormented so,
that rough and stony as may be my hours
they will blossom, like a meadow full of flowers.