the wildflower

the wildflower
has eyes in the back
	of her head
with them, she watches for petals
	left behind
as she cuts across the meadows
	carefully cultivating
a non-impression.

the wildflower
never made eye contact with me -
	my gaze cuts like a scythe,
my hands crush like a press
	but I recognized the pattern
of her walk and her dress
	as thorns
and I wouldn't want to make her
	grow more.

the wildflower
darted like a honeybee
	and flew true as an arrow
her leaves stabilizing fins,
	nothing out of place
to offer a grip for air resistance
	or arrow catchers.

the wildflower
followed me from the meadows
	to the forest
her employer worked her, selling
	dandylion wine to the foreigners
but this Canadian girl
	seemed so intelligent,
she'd probably write a better metaphor
	for serving in a bar
and making a supply run
	to the owner's second store.

the wildflowers
do not appreciate men
	who draw assumptions about
their faculties from their dress,
	but that's not what caught my attention
it was the way she moved
	from roots to sunlight,
focused only on her own journey
	but knowing I was there the whole time

see, in the forest I cocked my head in her direction
	my confused look a question
and her answer was to give a cheeky grin
	and maintain heading
but what can I say - I love flowers,
	not moss collections.