I often see flowers from a passing car

That are gone before I can tell what they are.

I want to get out of the train and go back

To see what they were beside the track.

I name all the flowers I am sure they were n’t:

Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt—

Not blue bells gracing a tunnel mouth—

Not lupine living on sand and drouth.

Was something brushed across my mind

That no one on earth will ever find?

Heaven gives its glimpses only to those

In no position to look too close.