Wildflower Stew

This poem was written for my father, Del Smith. Much love to you–and happy father’s day. 

When I was a girl with a cinnamon grin,

wildflower stew was my favorite recipe.

 

We camped with other fathers

teaching their daughters off-roading

and rifle-loading and the placement of tent pegs—

everything my father wished I knew

and nothing I wanted to.

 

But when the afternoons slowed

And softened in the summer heat

My father would find me

By a silvered stump and saucepan,

My happiness as wild as the flowers

I battered to bits, making magic

Of the ingredients.

 

The days out at the old Colorado cabin

Were wild with cedar scent and summer honey.

Every night I wished for a firefly

Until one night I saw fire fly above me

in a sky soaked with stars,

and when my father’s hand found mine

I knew that we are never what others

Expect of us—and yet we are still enough.