The touch-me-nots
were still blooming,
though many had already gone to seed—
jewel of weeds, orange, beloved
of the hummingbirds
for their deeply held sweets,
and the ripe pod, when touched,
so quick
to open and high-fly
its seeds into the world.
I was walking
down a path
where they grew, succulent and thick
in the damp earth near
a stream, when I saw
a trap
with a little raccoon inside,
praying,
as it felt, over and over,
the mesh of its capture,
and I had time—
just time—
to stumble down to the stream, and open the trap,
and say to the little one:
Run, run,
and the little one flew—
I did not touch him—
and climbed high into a tree.
And then I too, knowing the world,
ran through the jewel weeds
as someone, unknown and not smiling,
came down the path to where
the trap lay, stamped upon
by my very own feet,
and while I ran, the touch-me-nots
nodded affirmatively
their golden bodies—
I could not help but touch them—
and dashed forth their sleek pods,
oh, life flew around us, everywhere.