Lupine, Sugar Hill

by Russell Rowland

Say pilgrimage, and minds leap to Lourdes,
but in June it’s to secessionist Sugar Hill
that we process for healing and apparition:

entire meadows of vernal violet—spiked,
offering us stigmata of vibrant sensation
in place of ennui from glowing screens.

A horde merely follow each new season,
but one amputee on crutches, for instance,
skillful at swinging along, yet different—

her eyes too, can see the profusion ranked
beneath high Franconia Ridge, her phone
bring it back like theirs, the two-legged.

They may esteem themselves able-bodied,
but who needs no cure? Only the blooms
are flawless, partaking of beatific earth;

they alone mend estrangement from it.
As nomads we come to the salutary field,
then home rejoicing, to put down roots.