Fine-grained New England granite is obdurate stuff.
Long after the glacier’s press it stands untouched
by the hot lick of burning barrens for blueberries
or the trembling flame of open wood lily at its side.
That lone splash of red draws the eye
more strongly than the brief burnt orange zap
of delta-winged Skippers, or the lazy float of Monarchs.
Drawn by what invisible force it torques the field,
the wood lily pulls bright against the rock.