By Leonore Wilson
PROMPT—My white privilege ...
In the foothills of May, these wild ones, long lost
lovers, racemes of floral
buds, water-tight, grass like and a few sisters
canary yellow; illuminative
and oracular it was to see them as we walked
meteorically with our grown son
and wondered what they were these creamy white flowers,
funnels of bloom, cups,
chalices, snowy stars; and did it matter, their names,
golden nuggets or checkered lily,
did it matter what bird the somber brown one hid its song
in the flumes of buckeye, blooms
amicable pink; wasn’t affection in the walk of non-restriction
as if we were California
aborigines in Saturnian days thriving happily along the shadow
margins of woodland streams,
remembering what Emerson said that beauty is its own excuse for being.
Leonore Wilson has taught English and creative writing for over 20 years in the Bay Area. Her work has been in such magazines as Upstreet, PIF, Quarterly West, Iowa Review, Madison Review, and more.