My father names the flowers one by one:
devil's winecup, shooting star, columbine.
I sit beneath a lilac bush, lulled
by a humming of flies, as he
cuts branches from a yellow currant,
gathers them in his arms.
Later, in a stream so cold
it burns my hands,
we scoop up watercress —
sweet, for sandwiches.

I watch my father bend to adder's tongue,
bow to ghostly Indian pipes; I see
how something at the clearing's edge,
snared in tendrils, offers itself to his hand.

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