A New Mexican Poet has a Wordsworthian Moment upon Seeing Wildflowers after a Late Summer Rain

I’m out on routine runs
this first week of fall,
the pavement wet from
a sudden shower.
The monsoon rains
have tapered off, leaving only
lonely clouds, and I’m glad to
see them go, looking forward to
cooling down and drying out.

But the rains have left us gifts:
The tornillo is full of twisted pods,
the greasewood thick and green.
The desert is lush with tumbleweeds

and grasses with light-filled plumes
rushing to set seeds.
The dusky purple rock gives way
to mounds of mustard yellow:
snakeweed, threadleaf,
and myriad unknown tiny
radiant suns.

But more–
on slopes and hills
and sides of roads,
a host of desert marigolds!
And yes, if you please,
they are fluttering and dancing
in the breeze.

When the windy winter comes
and I’m out on routine runs;
when the days are tumbleweed brown
and my mood is dry as the dusty ground,
I’ll think about those summer showers,
and in mind’s eye I’ll recall
those golden days of early fall.

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