Neo-Pastoral

Between the cleaves and folds in these hills,Lupine unrolls its lilac teeth fartherthan the eye can see, feathering into obscurity.

And like a sundrunk child, cheatgrass lollsin the shade of some unnameable tree,which an arborist could no doubt name,

and though we brought our beloved sheepdogon the morning’s hike, there’s little greenin the frame and, decidedly, no sheep.

I’d figured on a rattlesnake or two, come lowlyfrom their holes to find the good light,or a lone magpie who’d plunge at some spark

in the lake of waist-high hay. But it’s not snakesor birds we’ve found at the flaxen peak,but smoke, whitewashing the timberline,

and down in the valley, fire. Because it grewon fallow slopes—and therefore must ravagethe soil past hope, a wolf among the fold—

the Romans named it Lupine. Wild, it bloomsevery shade of purple, but in hothouse roomswhere panes magnify natural light

and things and things’ selves are forever beingtamed past sense, you can buy it in crimson.How human, to turn what we touch to flame.