When the bushes go up with a shout
like pyrotechnics set off at ground level,
we step aside as Moses did, to see
how they can blaze yet not be consumed.
At twilight, these are often the last
things glowing, so we suspect their brilliance
is more than reflective.
It is hard to chronicle the bushes without
wandering into biography;
to pass a long row of them and not detect
emotions like bees in the blossoms.
Why does a man trim the branches back—
what cutting anger, taken out
on their exuberance? It might be the solace
of control, at least over something.
And that woman who breaks off
a twig in passage, to set in water back home:
who is that in remembrance of?
One who died, at last year’s blossoming?
Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.
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