Coltsfoot, hemlock, alder, nettle—names come slowly back to me—
           hazel, myosotis, and maiden hair. 
Beautiful to say and I want to start with beauty—the greens of sword fern, 
            horsetail in the riparian realm—a wish for spring 
or do I romanticize it all?

I admit that I know better. And if I didn’t, I have friends who will remind me.
            Yet I blunder forward 
like my husband who admitted if his friends leaped off a cliff, 
            he would follow—this man who said 
there’s no such thing as passion leading you astray.

My friends who stand within the circle of objectivity agree—it makes sense
            to do what makes you happy. Who’s to say
how things turn out? But there’s no excuse to act the fool.

Folks may laugh and I will blush, yet how much is under my control?
            We all may beg to fall in love yet
have it never happen. Or we may be stepping through a doorway,
            no more than grocery lists 
and car repairs to occupy the mind as we politely step aside,
            and one hand brushes up 
against another. Eyes connect, then gone. Years without
            a sign of lustful life,
why waken now? But I admit, I could not resist looking back.

Does it really matter how it happens? Maybe obstacle meets obstacle, 
            and everything stops— 
and there you stand—a chemical reaction, a biological bomb.
            Does it make us 
better people to resist what is red, lush and full of juice?

Maybe we choose what drives us—head or heart or sacred trust. 
            I know what good sense looks like but
it doesn’t tug, and it doesn’t soar, and it doesn’t swing you through the air
            and then let go.