Castilleja

The paintbrush is ubiquitous:

in the canvas of Cézanne,

leaving little spaces for passers to complete;

in the arias of Bach,

lifting each contrapunct to heavenly heights;

in the lines of Szymborska,

lovingly commiserating the fate of Lot's Wife;

in the dances of our grandkids,

           lithely aware, like lemurs, of complicated things.

Our grandpa painted prairie fire:

                        for the campus of conviviality,

            mowing meadow paths to circumnavigate;

                        for the melodies of yore,

            moving in and out and into Sunday mass;

                        for the poetry of evermore,

            mostly rooted in the great recall of Tevya;

                        for the guy wires of grace,

            ministerially in place and Holy Ghost maintained.

Indians adumbrate this flower: colonists accede its Nehemiahic power.