Deep grooves
of sun-dried mud,
uneven baked
soil, crumble into dust
and undermine
bipedal footsteps set each year
upon a wood’s
dirt road to find a wild flower
rooted in the
decayed husk of an old log.
One flower,
two leaves, a pink petal—
Venus
slipper—never to be picked,
to be observed,
unlike any of the others
that grow in
mass, dye the fields with RIT colors,
and stage wild
dances in stiff winds.
This one
startles the eye,
draws long
legs to a crouch,
for a close-up,
surprise intrusion
on its easily
missed, quiet declaration
of another
year discovered.
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