The flowers were wet, and sharp against the gray.
They lay there blue next to the road, the road away.
Impassible valleys, mountains of mist, this is
Where I came from, some way — how could I not
Grieve and pick flowers on that day?
When all the past was silent, at all I had to say,
With a black shawl thrown on my mother's ghost face
With "You don't get that," all the bearded man would say.
There was something in the blossoms
That made the pain alive, and gave me hope
That made the pain alive, and gave me hope
I could turn it into gift, for some empty vase.
But not this time, for this was Virginia, home of lovers,
Where the state police will stop you for your thoughts.
And this one made me throw back all the flowers
Into an overwhelming meadow of blue,
As if what I now knew would have to stay
Inside the woods I emerged from too.
An 18-wheeler barreled by, threw rocks across my feet,
As everyone I'd touched before that day
As everyone I'd touched before that day
All made their rude escape.
That road's as lost in smoke now as those crags,
But the flowers are as I remember them,
What I'd never have.
