Saturday, March 21, 2009

EVENING PRIMROSE


EVENING PRIMROSE

This morning, I awoke thinking of home. 
No, not this place—this is not home. 
My heart pines for the quietude of West Marin, 
where the hills held me in their hollows 
with such tenderness, there was nothing 
left to be afraid of. I remember one summer, 
finding a delicate pale yellow flower
blooming in the lower meadow. 
Evening primrose, my grandmother said. 
But then, she was always telling me
 the names of the plants and animals. 
This place was not her home, but she made it so. 
This same flower bloomed 
in the meadows of home 
hers, and mine. Pale yellow petals 
on a slender hairy stock, 
but with a scent that haunted 
the hollows of memory.

3/21/2009 

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