Why do the bluebells bloom in September?
How do they toll from tiny stems along the mountain path?
How do they rearrange the seasons to perplex us as we pass?
How did they earn a second coming after
the first haunt of frost and bed of snow?
Why do bluebells bloom in September?
What lured them back to life?
And how did I end up here with you,
trespassing on a wooded ridge
that belongs to coyote, buzzards, deer?
How did I come to know you,
you who would steady my feet
as we climb high and higher still?
And how did rose quartz come to lay itself
into a thick and radiant strata just before we reach the peak?
How was this path made to glint
with mica for mile after mile after mile?
When did we forget to listen to giant boughs
tossing and chanting and feathering the wind,
while mountain streams spoon ladle after ladle into valley’s bellies?
When did we forget to push our hearts until they throbbed
and build up muscle in our legs,
or forget it is water we want, water we crave, water by which we live?
How do our ears learn to hear again
and know the spirit of perfection that shines in everything
as we rest on a rocky ledge until refreshed and whole and sane?
Why do bluebells bloom in September
just before we descend and head home again?