you may think so.

Bitterroot is also Lewisia Rediva. Oh the metaphors you created, my Poet.

"When Lewis’ pressed and dried specimen was examined months after picking, it still showed signs of life and upon planting, it grew – hence the scientific name rediviva meaning “restored to life” (Parish et al 1996)."

Perfect.  Even she exclaimed, "It's us! It's us."
But, The Sparrow whispered a sentence for you I will not soon forget, either as memory or premonition or prophecy.  I am sorry, that I don't speak your language yet. or have forgotten it, or you've moved and I have to come after. It's okay. I know it is. I want my heart to bleed you, like it used too. I want to cry at what I feel now, even joy and hope pierce with beauty-ache.  But that doesn't change how it feels, how incapable of articulation I am... the ground of it, flying up to crash into a wild sparrow. It becomes another inhale, another silence held inside like that continent. I am weary of trying to pass the stillness of silence off into air, to send it over my vocal chords into vibrations for other ears, I am too weary... always lost in translation. We stood in the kitchen and laughed (a merciless laugh, the laugh of ice and fear)
: if you returned and spoke your language, there'd still be no one to translate.

How does one find the word? "Not all who wander are lost." Remember.

Remember when I was standing on the table and you talked casually until your legs began to migrate to the doorframe only then did you turn to ask me "why?" and I could only collapse into that laughter.
Remember, that you do not know how I want to hold, how I am breaking, you can not feel my bird bones snapping, the hollow crunch I taste in my mouth when I step on leaves, the aching. And I can not tell you how.


"It seems that all my bridges have been burned,
But you say that’s exactly how this grace thing works
It’s not the long walk home that will change this heart,
But the welcome I receive with the restart."