I count nineteen white blossoms   
            which would not be   
                     visible except for   
their wiry stems that catapult them   
            above the grass like   
                     the last white pop   
of fireworks, a toothed blast   
            of leaf below. It’s   
                     the Fourth of July   
on the bank of Hinkson Creek   
            fifty years ago, the powder-   
                     bitterness, the red   
combustion, my life, since   
       anemos means wind, means   
                     change, no matter   
that I’ve been held all along in this   
            thin twenty miles of atmosphere.   
                     The wind’s disturbed   
the leaves, rolled the waves,   
            convincing enough. Each   
                     star of a bloom   
is driven upward almost against   
            its small nature. All it can do   
                     is hang on and die.   
Still, it did want to go   
            as high as possible,   
                     for some reason,   
to sway up there like an art object.