I have always been drawn to intimacy,
that of the petal, the shell, the bee. 
Grand, sweeping panoramic views
have trouble impressing me. 
Everyone else lines up though to see,
so I release the guilt to the benevolent breeze
while I sneak away from my party
after posing in their pictures
to get low upon the mountain surface
to hear the gentle, pink, silky whispers.

My first two vacation poems of the same subject,
the world-renowned postcard as a blurred backdrop.
You can take a body to a different location,
but you cannot take control of a soul’s vocation,
especially when it is spiritually connected
more so to the underfoot details overlooked and neglected. 

The stories of nature that fit in the palm of my hand
speak to me more profoundly than the grandest canyon. 
I have never been one to follow the crowds. 
The bold mountaintop bloom whispers another route. 

I cannot take it now: my father is guiding this tour. 
But I will never forget the brief shared encounter

with the single wildflower

that found me in the clouds
and allowed me to recenter myself.