Sat on a stump along the Jordan River
in Murray Utah just after the sun had set.
The sky was yellow and blue and green,
the clouds in small clumps of clay.
On my right, yellow mustard weed. On my left
a bush fill with white umbrella blossoms.
I choose a few of the white blossoms, wiggle
them inside a glass bottle pendant, plug it with cork
and place it around my kneck. It was something
I’d wanted to do for years. Of the many things
I can’t accept, I grip the glass pendant and say
out loud I accept these blossoms. They will stiffen
and wrinkle and die. I can accept that. This glass
will be the urn I keep between my heart and my lungs.