from The Farming Life
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Summer mountain, magic meadow,
the mysterious weave of flowers
and grasses, and weeds,
the hard question of what is native
to this place, and what is not.
But does the botanist in me always have
to point his finger inwardly, tapping off
whole indices of the species of pastures
and fields like some might look for
all the A's or B-flats in
neatly sorted, counted, placed
in a row?
If you ask him to sing the note
of a particular plant, always,
his pitch must be perfect.
But he'll probably never confess to you,
although he'd like to, that, the more
he seems to know, the more difficult it is to
admit freely like a child to others, that,
this plant, the name of which seems
to elude him, he now sees for the
very first time.
(On the European Continent, one must venture up into the land
far above the trees, above 2000 meters or so, to enter a realm
which to this day is still entirely pristine and natural. Here we find a
place free of the confusion of false competition between largely indigenous
speciesso characteristic of the lowlands
caused by the centuries of misuse of the land.)