You are one of the few things left
that cannot be purchased, but
must instead be cultivated and
shaped over time, like clay aching
for the touch and turn of human hands.
You struggle up like a wildflower
in the same untamed patch of ground,
needing both the light and shadow
of the understory to keep rising up
year after year. You are the single
untrammeled Spring Beauty I saw
today, growing from a clump of moss,
white and pink-veined petals open
only slightly, like a mouth searching
for the right words to speak or sing.
—James Crews
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