Tiger Lily

The glow of your orange skin—freckled with oval spots,
the color of the soil where roots call home.

Alone—near Nirvana Street—both lakes in earshot.
Repetitive crashing—
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
the beat to your time.

A creature wanders by—
he studies the curves of your petals—
and wonders what the botanists might call you.

I ponder your journey—
are you new to this world,
or have your colors lain dormant since fall?

My boundaries reach wide,
his world—these glacial lakes,
and you, alone, near Nirvana Street—
sharing beauty with each passerby.