You identified all the flora
from Spokane to Olympia
at sixty miles an hour.
The Cascades were milky
with tiny white flowers:
What are those white ones?
Phlox.
Like flocks of sheep?
No. With a Ph.
You hide a smile
of wonder from me.
They look like flocks
of sheep and I couldn’t
forget them.

II.

Before you, I realized
only red roses, but you
drew out my roots and
unveiled my petals. You
brought me trillium
and cinquefoil
and fairy-bells
then ate daffodils
for my delight.
Your antics and
the yellow confetti
on your tongue
completely enchanted me.

III.

I never smelled a gardenia
before I met you.
I smell them now until
I’m drunk. It’s your scent.
You fuel the breezes
that arouse me early
in May. You’re the pollen
I inhale. You make me
burn and sneeze.

IV.

I thought you would stay
gentle and teach me
Latin names, but
you turned common.
I didn’t ask for more
than learning what
the orange ones are
with the pointed petals,
but you were through
with teaching and went on
to explore alone
the Elysian Fields.

V.

I drove through Snoqualmie
last weekend. The pass was bleached
with phlox of sheep.
The Greeks called
their flames phlox.
I made the connection when
my skin burned and flushed
with thrill at a glance
of the spirited hillside.
You made those tiny
white flowers sublime, but
now you don’t remember
how gardenias smell.
You don’t know
the genus or species
of anything and you can’t
remember whether or not
what you breathe
is poisonous.