Read it as a slow walk through a wooded valley, where the speaker notices things one at a time and lets the memories rise as they come. Most of the poem is a kind of naming: touch-me-not, glasswort, jumpseed, enchanter's nightshade, wingstem. The short lines and wide gaps make us pause between each plant, as if we were stopping to look.
Underneath the list, a few details carry feeling. The invasive stiltgrass halts "just short" of the touch-me-not, a small moment of resistance that the speaker seems quietly pleased to see. Then comes a childhood memory: a pit dug to reach a gurgling sound, which is "still down there." That line feels tender and a little marvelous, as though something from youth has survived unchanged. The old dump site and the bumblebee's long tongue bring human leftovers and patient nature together.
The mood is calm, attentive, and gently nostalgic, with a quiet sense that the land endures.