Driving down the road,
I stop to praise the wildflowers
guarding the gully
like yellow-billed soldiers.
I praise your sensible size,
clustered in God’s bouquet,
open to the arrival of bees,
spreading the wings of spring.
Your beauty is the first swamp color,
popping up in winter’s wake.
A glorious butterweed ribbon
unbounded, blowing in the fresh breeze.
Even with your death, you feed us,
such is the circle of life,
from compost to crawfish,
trapped, boiled, and Cayenne-peppered,
just in time for Good Friday Feasts.