the sign at the saucony creek says "don't pick the wildflowers."

i walk the creek after school
with the sky turning bold orange
almost like a highlighter 
& the sound of a soccer game happening 
behind a row of trees.
a whistle blows--someone yells.
all the coolest kids play soccer because 
they're fit enough to run back & forth 
for hours. i'm inclined to moss caressing,
climbing the playground's old maple tree,
& dandelion wishing.
today the wildflowers are bold.
i sit on the bench & the gnats
waltz with near by. i tell the wildflowers 
i'm not lonely, i'm just waiting.
the bloodroot are the first who start
to beg me to take them with me 
when i walk home. they open their white mouths 
& cry with high pitched voices.
i scratch them under the petals 
like you might pet a dog but they still cry.
i gesture to the sign & they say 
they don't-- that the flowers 
should make the rules about what happens
to themselves. the buttercups
are less straight forward 
they tell me they would make
wonderful gifts for a crush. they ask 
who i have a crush on. i tell them
my crushes are all impossible-- that 
i am a chubby girl who doesn't know
how to wear eyeliner right just yet--
who prefers a walk by the skunk cabbage--
admiring their purple & green rubbery skin.
i'm persuaded though & i pick up a buttercup
& put it to my ear. i listen 
to the sound of other girls laughing 
which i hate because i always think 
they're laughing at me. i ask 
the buttercup to say something else 
& this time it sounds like a train whistle:
loud & startling. 
the most tempting of all the wildflowers
is the blue violet. they threaten to turn
into butterflies if i don't pick them all--
every last one of them.
i ask what i would do with all that
indigo & they say everyone at some point
has to be overwhelmed with colors.
i tell them i'm not ready. i ask if
i can come back another day.
the crowd at the soccer game is cheering--
it sounds like someone is winning.
the boy i likes plays soccer--
i imagine him winning. he got the goal.
he's made of trout lilies & he's yellow 
& he's walking towards me to tell me 
he also caresses the moss when
no one is looking. 
the violets insist & so i work 
all through dusk & into 
early evening
plucking purple by their necks.
they ask me truth or dare questions.
they insist i must have been in love
at least once so i make up a story
about a playground romance i didn't have.
i insist that i'm only twelve &
that all of these flowers
are too much for me.
i gather them in my arms & i amble 
the few blocks home.
in my room the violets glow lightly 
& want to talk all night
so i put the buttercups 
in my ears to fall sleep
imagining i'm laying 
on the railroad tracks.