I go looking for small purple
eruptions that promise
mertensia virginica will
return. It’s mid-March. It’s time.
Surely, surely it was here
along this bank, this stretch
of stream, where the blue
blossoms waved their blessing.
I kneel, wet-kneed, to brush
away old leaves with eager
fingers. Nothing. The promise
lies entombed. My need has
brought me here too soon. I’ll
wait a day or two or more
and then return, looking
for the signs of resurrection.
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