I am enamored with chicory flowers.
They are utterly, spontaneously, effortlessly beautiful.
They sprout in crowds
along the gravel shoulder of the road,
unbothered by the residue of road salt,
immune to scraps of tires.
If I could write something
that was so immediate and arresting
as the blueness of her blossoms
I might never write another word after.
The color of sunsets and seascapes
weeps from her in farewells
as bitter as her leaves.
Were the sighs of a farmer's widow so blue,
they would extinguish the stars
and stain the moon.
The bare fields
would no more sprout
with corn or beans.
Only blue.