By Holly Day
hesitant, the daffodils
fall back as if they know their kind
is alien here, in the
preserved greenstone steppes once home
to trilobites and scaly
invertebrate worms. only
the hardiest flowers grow
here, those that can make a home
forcing roots through iron-hard
gray granite, or against
the base of stunted jack first.
springtime, and no yellow blooms
against the thin grasses, just
blue and purple flowers spring
from the glacial plains, broken
intermittent by maroon
columbine. sparrows search the
ground to find scattered seeds and
berries among the sparse plants,
among flowers that first bloomed
long before birds sprouted wing.
Holly Day is a travel-writing instructor living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her most recent nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities.