Blueflower
The canal began unwinding in 1905, wood flume
twelve feet wide. I’d like to rename you, a more
rarefied name worthy of your rills and curves.
The wildflowers that claim your banks, that paddle
the breeze, dance near your shallows – I love
those tiny blue ones, thimblefuls of petals
not even long as an eyelash. What’s their name?
When I find it, I will call you that, and not
your sure-footed given name, Central Oregon
Canal. Where I grew up they named new schools
for pioneers with quaint histories, why not canals?
There’s a new school going up just south
of your slopes, Caldera High, Caldera Spanish
for cauldron, a remnant of volcanic events, symbol
of the burgeoning transformations of youth. Caldera
already has a football field for the whirling pom-poms
of flirting teens. Why not honor your origins
with the wide straw hat of someone who first
conceived of your tresses, 27 miles of laterals
now flowing from the Deschutes? William Arnold.
A boy’s idea, a man’s wet dream. His imagination
could soak the dusty ground of bean plants,
make them rise like Jack and the Beanstalk.
We could call you The Billy Canal. But I confess
to favoring your misty fragrance. Blueflower, spill
your name. Ah! Fairy Thimbles! Now dusk can tuck
its shawl about your whispering nubile stems.
