hope is goldenrod in an arc
over a stem of purple asters,
a bee nuzzling blossom to blossom,
a proliferation of tiny white petals
centered in gold, one solid orange line
across the wings of a black butterfly.
We walk unpaved trails crisscrossing
these ninety acres of restored prairie.
Hope is your naming the beauty
I paused to admire though I didn’t know
its name. Between our knowing and all
our unknowing, hope grows here with us.