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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