Beside that house
there are three mimosa trees
and I am unaffected,
still myself,
all my rocks in a circle,
heating sun tea in a jar
and planting mixed zinnia seeds
in the front yard.
Running my hands along
ferny mimosa fronds
in a straight line to the
Paleolithic heart of treeness,
I encounter a fossil memory
of marsh heat and rains
that ceased a million years ago
(or only a moment),
my heart blooming in comprehension
long before the loose pink flowers
scatter on the lawn.

Copyright 2001 by Karen Thompson

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