Photographing the Wild Geranium

What teaspoon of light
draws me to my knees,
the sun pulling me
into this weedy gulch
to lie beneath petal veins
and five lavender lobes?
The camera dials and buttons
I turn and click trespass
too loudly in this late
afternoon, this little spring
for a cow or elk or something else,
still muddied, I think, by what
drank or bathed before me.
I thought to take a picture
of something flown, of
something like the gold finch
I saw riding a sunflower
by a quick river I passed
the other day. And now
I’ve lain my whole self down
beneath a wild geranium
dark where rain lingers still.
They call the geranium
cranes bill,
what I kneeled at today,
half-wild and yoked here
seed by seed.
When will the river come again?
And the white egret
I saw quiet at its edge?
Sun bright, I tell you,
was the goldfinch
before my shadow
touched it and it fled.

Kathryn Winograd

A longtime educator and arts advocate, Kathy is the author of seven books, including her recent chapbook, Flying Beneath the Dog Star: Poems from a Pandemic, a semi-finaist for the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Contest, Slow Arrow: Unearthing the Frail Children, a Bronze Medalist in Essay for the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards, and Air Into Breath, an Alternate for the Yale Series for Younger Poets and Colorado Book Award Winner in Poetry.