​Relics


Scanning the Wood Violets along the trail
for the leash I dropped,
all I see are the Wood Violets,
and the Columbine, and the Wild Iris,
fragile and unfurling—the best way to look
for something you’ve lost
is not to care if you find it—this is the root
of the word relic:  I abandon, I leave— 
and the Hazel, and the Thimbleberry,
and all the fresh new green, and high
against the tops of the fir, the white crowns
of the blossoming cherry trees,
as sweet as clouds. 
As brief.