Digitalis purpurea
Somewhere
I am not in motion
but held
by foxgloves
and June grey
granite peering over
asphalt curves
golden lines are
lanes and bumblebees
bloodspot blossoms
and a summer
not yet here
but not yet
there, either.
It goes to the
heart first:
it changes the
rhythm
slow, irregular
pulsing around the
bend where
the river yawns
rolling tighter
for just a few
more minutes
before the day
can’t wait
any longer.
Seasons are
slow to reach
coastal mountains;
foxglove likes it
that way.
