Wild Peavines

Wild Peavines

by Robert Morgan

I have never understood how

the mountains when first seen by hunters

and traders and settlers were covered

with peavines. How could every cove

and clearing, old field, every

opening in the woods and even

understories of deep woods

be laced with vines and blossoms in

June? They say the flowers were so thick

the fumes were smothering. They tell

of shining fogs of bees above

the sprawling mess and every bush

and sapling tangled with tender

curls and tresses. I don't see how

it was possible for wild peas

to take the woods in shade and deep

hollows and spread over cliffs in

hanging gardens and choke out other

flowers. It's hard to believe the creek

banks and high ledges were that bright.

But hardest of all is to see

how such profusion, such overwhelming

lushness and lavish could vanish,

so completely disappear that

you must look through several valleys

to find a sprig or strand of wild

peavine curling on a weedstalk

like some word from a lost language

once flourishing on every tongue.