The poem moves through a woodland like a slow walk, stopping at one small sight after another. A gate that closes itself, with a rusty creak, stands among very old oaks. Underfoot, a violet hides in fallen leaves, and the speaker mentions its self-fertilizing "alter ego," a second kind of flower that never needs to open. Then comes the one openly personal moment: "ah to be / both dapper and invisible." The speaker seems to envy these quiet plants, which look good, go unnoticed, and need no audience.
The poem ends with striped wintergreen and a woodpecker that ignores it, then the fine dust from her drilling. Nothing dramatic happens. The speaker's feeling is gentle admiration, with a touch of wistfulness. The mood is hushed and patient, and the short, spaced-out lines make us look closely and slow down, much as the speaker does.