At the edge of the cliff
the wind tousles the snakeweed
into a riot of waving fronds.
They dance and still, and dance
and still, resettling into their natural state
before being danced again.
All morning I have been thinking
about resilience, or more rightly,
resilience has visited me,
not as a thought, more as
a mandate. And here, the snakeweed,
golden flowers lit by sun,
leads me to the edge of the cliff
where the wind whips everything
that dares show up,
and the snakeweed—
stirred, disturbed and rearranged—
has never been more itself.