Crossvine

Walking in search of,
I stub my toe on a blossom

fallen in the middle of the trail,
this orange and yellow bell-shaped flower
sits weighty in the palm of my hand

like an engraved invitation
to look up

high, in the canopy of hickory
and persimmon, sycamore
and beech,

whose leaves thwart
my aching gaze

I move on
in hopes of a revelation,
but none comes

so I return to stillness
in the cabin at the edge of the woods

where birds
of brilliant color and song
converge on feeders

materializing from a tangled arbor,
dissolving into it

leading my hungry eyes
to rest on blossoms,
orange and yellow bell-shaped flowers

suspended in the newly-greening air
singing their spring song

and everywhere I turn
they are there,
where my journey began