Small Pleasure

is knowing the purple coneflower
is also echinacea, its skirt
of purple petals dropped for the season
and all that’s left: the spiked
center, a prickled sphere
that presses up into my palm
pressed down onto it. A sturdy
knob, a black sun, fixed 
to a stem, hip-high, the perfect height
at which to be held. I hold it,
gentle, in my hand cupped
and upside down. All of this
happens in a pause—it is fall,
my walk home—
and in the pause, I get small 
as I’ve ever been, a cup 
for the long light and what’s best
let go, and I brim, crest, overflow.