Yes.
This poem I dedicated to Georgia O'Keeffe, but she didn't like.
[LAUGHTER]
But she liked my cooking.
I cooked for her one day.
You know oyster plant?
Oyster plant?
Somebody knows oyster plant.
[INAUDIBLE]
No, no, no.
You know oyster plant?
[INAUDIBLE]
It's a kind of--
sunflower group, and purple flower.
And only open in 10 o'clock morning to 2:00 afternoon
then close.
And after blooming, just like dandelion, big ball.
This plant started from India.
And probably Alexander Great, he brought back to Greek
to cultivate, because you can eat root just like a carrot.
And the Chinese brought to China,
and Japanese brought from China to Japan,
and American white immigrant brought from Europe to here.
Now getting wild all over the United States.
So, smells like oyster.
So I'm joking with this poem.
On a summer morning, walking in Japanese mountain
woods, a 16-year-old boy, I met my first love.
This round-faced girl, slim body,
sharp [? red ?] gold eyes, not really shy.
Liked me to look at her, dress her up green just for me.
We met in the high meadow.
I called her "mountain lady," behind a thorn fence,
watching her lips blooming in summer morning light.
Crossing many, many winters, gray-headed man
finds his way to a new continent, walking woods
in southern Rockies.
With another summer morning light, I meet my old love.
She's still 16 years old, as before,
with a round face and edible root, a native yellow South
Asian plant.
What a traveler walking East to Japan,
wandering westward to the Rockies
without fear, without feet.
From my mountain ladies golden face,
shining out beauty, intelligence, and patience.
No beginning, no ending to love.
Whenever summer blooms back over us, we meet in the high meadow,
waving fuzzy globe of star-seed cluster,
waiting for another summer to glide.
Don't call my lady "Oyster Plant."
So next time, maybe it's too hot here.
A [INAUDIBLE] knows.
This plant, northern New Mexico, many.
California, many.