Kristin Winkler Snow
{Abstract Expressions}
The Choice
I chose to no longer be
a pure stand of Creosote bush
blooming in the desert.
I chose not to
flower yellow or to endure
with so little water or, when watered,
offer up my pungent leaves.
I refused to allow
my flexible stems
be refuge for praying
mantids or crickets
singing for love.
When my flowers
turned to fruit
I watched my white fuzz
taken west by a Santa Ana
wind. And then –
then I followed it:
I abandoned barrenness,
released my roots from
rocks and sand, rose over
the San Andreas fault
and floated skyward.
I halfway longed to hear
a cry for my return.
Below I saw a
a rattler in its
circuitous path
and a coyote gnawing
at yesterday’s meal.
As I rose I wondered if
the wind had only deafened
the sounds below, such as
the clacking, bitter foliage
much like mine,
but I will never know.