Lady's Slipper

I found the flower 
of the Lady's Slipper
lying on the ground
beside her,

(so like the stunned
Hummingbird 
in the garden.)

I gently held the blossom
in my cupped hand --
          she felt tremulous 
         like a heart barely beating.

     All week I had brought her
Tobacco and whiskey

and sat with her 
     long hours in the dark.

Were my breath 
and my prayers
poison?

Or did they earn me
the intimate grace
of tending to her
fallen flower?

Or did it all
mean nothing 
to her at all?

Unless I can know
how will I ever dare
pray again?