One free unbidden blossom opened out
beyond the garden’s better tended bed
a corner I had long bequeathed instead
to wind and weed, to time’s oncoming drought.

Some mountain bird, perhaps, had dropped the seed,
a migrant passing through the garden unaware
of what my flowers were, nor should it care,
for other worlds away would serve its need.

A bloom, whose bud I had not noticed grow
till recently across the sprays of purple sage
and lavender, an unknown foliage
arose of subtler forms I had to know.

The hues of this exotic thing were spilled
in golds and earthy tones, and scents that sparked
an Autumn fragrance that might go unmarked
amid the heady airs that Summer’s filled.

No book has Alpenblume growing here,
yet I will trust to what my instinct knows
is blooming sure, as if the mountain’s snows
have melted and the skies begun to clear.