strange flower

Walked to Trader Joe's through the river park, among the birch whose leaves are the skeletons of the color bronze. All of the rocks in the path make it hard to look up at the world, forcing you to stop when you want to see.



I should not say a river, but a lingering memory of rain.



There are leaves coming and this is the promise of them.



And hidden in the leaves of a dead year, a flower called strange.